•4^ 


I  THE  BALLET 
.    DANCER 

II  MATILDE  SERAO 


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THE 

m    BALLET 
DANCER 


AND 


ON   GUARD 


By 
MATILDE    SERAO 

AUTHOR   OF 

"THE     LAND     OF     COCKAYNE" 

"THE    CONQUEST    OF     ROME "    ETC. 


[^ 


HARPER  &-  BROTHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
PUBLISHERS     -      -      1901 


HI 


iU 


THE  BALLET  DANCER 


343 


Carmela  Mining  stood  beside  her  chest  of  drawers 
and  counted  over  and  over  again  the  money  that  she 
kept  in  a  small  worn  purse,  and  she  found  always 
the  same  sum,  the  same  eighteen  francs — three  bills 
of  five  and  three  of  one  franc — which  she  had  found 
the  day  before  and  also  the  previous  week.  She 
pulled  out  of  her  pocket  the  tiny  old  portemonnaie 
she  always  carried  about  with  her,  and  in  which  she 
kept  a  little  change — a  few  pence — with  which  to 
pay  omnibus  fares,  a  chair  at  Mass,  and  now  and 
then  a  glass  of  mineral  water.  In  this  receptacle 
she  found  sevenpence,  and,  with  a  gesture  at  once 
puerile  and  sad,  she  turned  and  looked  anxiously 
and  despairingly  round  her  room,  as  if  from  the 
bare  walls  and  the  poor  furniture,  which  consisted 
of  only  a  few  absolutely  indispensable  objects,  she 
could,  like  a  fairy,  evoke  an  imaginary  sum  of  money 
with  which  to  swell  her  insufficient  capital.  She 
had  had  a  dream  of  being  able  to  carry  this  year  a 
wreath  of  fresh  flowers  to  the  tomb  of  her  god- 
mother and  benefactress — a  large  wreath,  all  made 
of  the  most  beautiful  flowers,  with  an  inscription 
also  in  flowers — an  inscription  composed  of  two  or 

1—2 


4  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

three  words  of  remembrance,  gratitude  and  affection. 
For  this  purpose  she  had  laid  up  some  money  in 
the  summer,  putting  by  a  penny  at  a  time,  and,  by 
depriving  herself  of  many  things,  had  managed  to 
scrape  together  forty-two  francs,  while,  in  her  mind's 
eye,  the  wreath  assumed  ever  fairer  proportions  and 
more  vivid  colours,  and  the  thought  of  laying  it  with 
her  own  hands  on  the  tomb  where  Amina  Boschetti 
slept  was  sweet  to  her. 

In  order  to  facilitate  this  darling  project,  Carmela 
Minino  had  signed  an  engagement  to  dance  at  Castel- 
lamare,  in  August  and  September,  in  the  dreary  barn 
called  Stabia  Hall,  with  its  ceiling  open  to  the  sky, 
and  under  the  direction  of  Civillo  Patalano,  an 
impresario  who  paid  little,  and  that  little  irregularly, 
and  who  often  paid  nothing  at  all.  Carmela  had 
accepted  the  engagement,  in  spite  of  her  doubts  of 
Patalano,  because  she  did  not  wish  to  trench  upon 
the  sum  set  apart  for  the  wreath,  and  also  because 
she  wished  to  increase  it,  if  it  were  possible ;  and 
she  had  danced  in  the  wooden  theatre,  in  the  open 
air,  perspiring  in  the  hot  August  evenings  until  her 
silk  tights  were  glued  to  her  skin,  and  she  caught 
one  cold  after  another  in  the  draughts  which  swept 
over  the  stage.  In  vain  did  she  wrap  herself  in  her 
black  woollen  shawl  when  she  left  it.  And  all  this 
pain  and  trouble  for  nothing ! 

September  had  been  cold  and  rainy,  and  all  the 
summer  visitors  had  left  Castellamare ;  Stabia  Hall 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  5 

was  deserted,  and,  notwithstanding  the  real  curses 
and  feigned  tears  of  the  ballet-dancers,  Civillo 
Patalano  had  not  paid  them  for  the  month  of 
September.  Only  here  and  there  a  girl  who  was 
lucky  enough  to  have  an  energetic  father,  and  one 
capable  of  swearing  louder  than  Civillo  Patalano,  or 
a  brother  whom  she  supported,  and  whose  interest 
was  therefore  involved  in  her  being  paid,  or  a  girl 
who  had  a  lover  who  showed  his  fist  to  the  im- 
presario— only  persons  so  protected  succeeded  in 
wrenching  a  few  francs  from  him. 

Carmela  Minino  had  screamed  and  wept,  but  all 
to  no  purpose.  She  was  alone,  she  had  no  de- 
fenders, and  Patalano  did  not  pay  her  the  forty-five 
francs  owing  to  her  for  the  month  of  September, 
although  he  had  signed  her  contract  at  a  franc  and ' 
a  half  an  evening.  It  was  a  financial  disaster  for 
the  poor  girl ;  she  had  to  pay  half  the  rent  of  the 
miserable  room  where  she  slept  with  Maria  Civita, 
another  dancer,  and  an  equally  unfortunate  one, 
except  that  she  had  a  lover  in  Naples  who  sent  her 
a  postal-order  for  twenty  francs.  Then,  Carmela 
had  to  pay  her  board  until  the  end  of  the  month  at 
a  small  restaurant,  and,  finally,  she  had  to  return 
to  Naples,  paying  her  third-class  ticket  herself,  and 
carrying  with  her  the  unpleasant  consciousness  that 
her  best  silk  tights  were  so  stained  by  perspiration 
as  to  be  unwearable,  and  her  two  best  pairs  of  satin 
slippers  utterly  worn  out  by  dancing  on  the  rough 


THE  BALLET  DANCER 
6 

floor  of  Stabia  Hall.  Between  this  catastrophe  and 
a  dull  month  of  October,  when  she  could  get  no 
engagement,  a  large  part  of  the  savings  which  she 
had  set  apart  for  the  wreath  of  fresh  flowers  gradually 
melted  away,  and  Carmela  Minino  felt  her  heart 
sink  every  time  she  took  a  franc  out  of  her  purse. 
And  thus  it  happened  that  on  the  morning  of  the  first 
of  November  she  only  had  eighteen  francs  and  thirty- 
five  centimes  with  which  to  honour  her  godmother's 
tomb,  and  from  this  sum  she  was  forced  to  deduct 
a  few  pence  for  her  supper,  and  for  the  journey  to 
and  from  Paggioreale  on  a  day  when  all  Naples  goes 
there,  and  cabs  are  enormously  expensive. 

*  Flowers  are  so  dear  at  this  season !'  she  thought 
within  herself  as  she  put  on  her  hat  to  go  out ;  and 
a  secret  bitterness  swelled  within  her  as  she  felt  her 
beautiful  dream  to  be  almost  completely  destroyed. 
Out  of  doors  the  weather  was  cloudy,  and  when 
Carmela  had  descended  the  four  flights  of  steps 
which  led  from  her  room  in  the  Vicolo  Paradiso  to 
the  Pignasecca,  she  decided  to  go  back  again  and 
take  her  umbrella.  She  was  dressed  in  black, 
although  her  mourning  for  her  mother  had  been  long 
laid  aside ;  she  had  wanted  to  go  in  a  black  gown 
to  pray  for  her  benefactress,  but  in  any  case  she 
could  not  have  afforded  a  new  winter  gown.  The 
weather  was  so  uncertain.  If  it  rained,  the  black 
feather  in  her  hat  would  be  spoiled.  It  was  an 
ancient  plume  which  had  once  been  splendid,  and 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  7 

which  Carmela  wore  all  the  year  round,  on  summer 
and  winter  hats,  which  were  trimmed  afresh  accord- 
ing to  the  season,  while  the  feather  was  carefully 
curled  by  her  with  the  back  of  the  scissors.  Not- 
withstanding all  her  care,  the  long  feather  was  a 
little  worn — she  had  had  it  for  five  or  six  years! 
Rain  spoils  feathers. 

Full  of  uneasy  presentiments,  she  went  upstairs, 
and  felt  more  tranquil  when  she  returned,  carrying 
pressed  to  her  bosom  the  faithful  old  umbrella  which 
had  for  years  protected  her  from  summer  and  winter 
rains,  as  she  went  to,  and  returned  from,  San  Carlo. 
With  the  light  step  of  her  profession,  she  passed  on, 
picking  her  way  carefully,  and  saying  a  *  Hail  Mary ' 
as  she  passed  the  Madonna  of  the  Pignasecca.  Ab- 
sorbed in  her  sad  thoughts,  Carmela  Minino  reached 
the  street  called  Chiaia,  where  the  best  florists  in 
Naples  are  to  be  found. 

The  walls  of  Toledo  and  Chiaia  were  covered  with 
the  advertisements  peculiar  to  All  Saints'  Day.  At 
one  place  wax  candles  were  advertised  at  three 
francs  a  pound;  at  another  wire  wreaths,  cheap 
and  lasting ;  another  advertisement  bore  the  time- 
table of  the  small  branch  railroad  Nola  Baiano, 
which  had  a  station  at  Paggioreale;  there  were, 
further  on,  numberless  advertisements  of  tapers, 
wreaths,  etc. ;  and  even  that  of  a  restaurant  which 
provided  a  hot  dinner,  with  the  white  wine  called 
asprinia,  at  a  place  not  far  from  the  cemetery  and 


8  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

on  the  direct  route  to  it,  so  that  people  could  refresh 
themselves  comfortably  after  having  done  their  duty 
to  the  dead.  All  the  small  dry-goods  shops  displayed 
wreaths  of  v^^ire,  of  stiff  tarlatan,  of  dried  immortelles, 
painted  in  various  colours,  and  of  pressed  flowers, 
and  all  were  crowded  with  purchasers,  who  were 
continually  going  in  and  coming  out  with  small  or 
large  wreaths,  while  quantities  of  private  carriages 
swept  by,  full  of  people  dressed  in  mourning  and 
carrying  wreaths  of  flowers.  Some  of  these  wreaths 
were  immense,  superb,  and  Carmela's  eyes  filled 
with  tears  as  she  thought  of  the  miserable  sum 
which  she  held  tightly  in  her  hand — such  a  poor 
little  sum  compared  with  her  ardent  desire  to  heap, 
flowers  on  the  tomb  of  the  beloved  being  who  had 
been  everything  to  her  in  life  and  in  death. 

The  tears  did  her  good,  however,  by  producing  a 
reaction.  Instead  of  hopeless  depression,  a  sense  of 
exaltation,  a  firm  resolution  to  conquer  destiny  for  at 
least  that  one  day,  took  possession  of  her  soul.  And 
in  this  spirit  she  unhesitatingly  pushed  open  the 
great  glass  doors  which  led  to  Lamarra's  shop, 
which  was  the  finest  in  Naples,  and,  stepping  lightly 
over  the  damp  marble  floor,  and  past  the  crowds  of 
people  who  were  buying,  paying,  ordering,  Arriving, 
and  departing,  she  reached  the  counter  where  the 
employes  were  making  wreaths  of  tea-roses  and 
ferns,  and  crosses  of  double  chrysanthemums,  reposing 
on  a  background  of  dark-green  leaves,  and,  without 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  9 

the  slightest  timidity,  asked  a  tall,  white-haired  man, 
who  was  directing  the  others  : 

*  Please  show  me  some  wreaths  of  fresh  flowers.' 

*  All  these  you  see  here  are  already  ordered,'  replied 
the  man  with  white  moustaches,  who  was  no  other 
than  Lamarra,  hardly  deigning  to  look  at  Carmela 
Minino  while  he  spoke. 

She  was  taken  aback,  and,  flushing  and  paling 
alternately,  turned  to  look  at  the  wreaths  of  chrysan- 
themums and  the  cushions  of  roses,  upon  which 
reposed  crosses  of  small  white  flowers,  which  were 
growing  rapidly  under  the  expert  fingers  of  the 
assistants.  There  was  something  inexpressibly  sad 
in  all  this  floral  abundance. 

*  About  how  much  would  a  wreath  cost  ?'  mur- 
mured Carmela,  swallowing  her  tears. 

'  I  can  make  you  one  for  a  hundred  or  two  hundred 
francs,  as  you  like,'  answered  Lamarra,  while  he 
handed  change  to  a  customer  and  wrote  an  order  in 
his  book. 

*  But  less — are  there  none  for  less  than  a  hundred 
francs  ?'  asked  Carmela,  turning  as  red  as  fire. 

*  Something  for  sixty  or  fifty  francs,'  answered  the 
florist  abstractedly,  absorbed  in  his  affairs,  and  per- 
ceiving that  he  had  to  do  with  a  client  of  no  conse- 
quence. 

Carmela  was  silent  for  a  moment.  How  beautiful 
they  were,  those  wreaths  of  fresh  flowers,  the  delicate 
flowers  which  bloom  in  November,  as  if  to  adorn  the 


lo  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

tombs  of  the  departed  on  the  day  of  commemoration  ! 
How  fragrant  with  a  soft,  melancholy  fragrance! 
Lovely  flowers!  destined  to  exhale  their  sweetness 
on  the  marble  slabs  of  the  composanto,  and  to 
spend  their  brief  existence  in  covering  for  two  days 
the  hard,  cold  stones  which  had  lain  bare  and  aban- 
doned for  a  year !     She  took  courage  and  said : 

'What  is  the  very  lowest  price  for  a  handsome 
wreath  ?     Please  tell  me.' 

Lamarra  looked  her  full  in  the  face  this  time  with 
a  contemptuous  expression  ;  he  found  that  this  girl 
was  decidedly  making  him  lose  too  much  time,  and 
he  answered  curtly : 

*  Thirty  francs.' 

*  Ah  1'  she  answered  submissively. 

Slowly  Carmela  turned  and  left  the  shop,  a  prey 
to  the  most  profound  depression.  Why  had  she 
gone  into  the  shop  when  she  only  possessed  eighteen 
francs  ?  Why  had  she  wanted  to  see  all  those 
flowers  when  she  could  not  take  them  to  Amina 
Boschetti  ?  Why  had  she  been  so  foolish  ? — she,  so 
poor,  so  humble,  so  alone,  with  no  earthly  resource 
but  her  dancing — dancing  for  which  she  was  often 
unable  to  obtain  an  engagement,  although  she  had 
no  other  means  of  earning  her  bread.  And  how 
poorly  it  was  paid ! — two  francs  and  a  half  or  three 
francs  at  San  Carlo,  and  less  in  the  smaller  theatres. 

She  walked  slowly  toward  the  lower  part  of  the 
Strada  di  Chiaia,  reproving  herself  severely  the  while 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  ii 

for  her  pride,  her  arrogance,  her  great  presumption. 
Who  was  she,  pray  ?  A  poor  ballet-dancer,  plain, 
ungraceful,  without  any  redeeming  quality  but  her 
youth  and  her  tireless  energy.  And  she  had  dared  to 
think  of  taking  a  wreath  of  fresh  flowers  to  the  tomb 
of  Amina  Boschetti !  To  Amina  Boschetti  ?  And 
during  her  brief  day  had  not  the  Boschetti  been  the 
fairest,  loftiest,  most  brilliant  star  of  San  Carlo, 
unequalled  and  never  to  be  equalled  in  excellence  ? 
Had  she  not  been  a  very  dream  of  grace  and  every 
feminine  charm,  an  airy  phantom  of  delight  in  her 
floating  tulle  robes,  and  the  cunningly  woven  bodices 
of  silver  and  gold  which  had  made  her  look  like  a 
butterfly  as  she  flitted  about  the  stage  ? 

As  she  walked  slowly  onward,  Carmela  recalled  the 
ideal,  poetic  beauty  of  the  great  Boschetti  in  Neapoli- 
tan costume,  when  she  danced  in  the  *  Muta  di  Por- 
tici ' ;  she  saw  her  lying  on  the  ground,  with  her 
arms  forming  an  arch  above  her  beautiful  dark  head ; 
she  remembered  her  smile — that  ineffable,  mysterious 
smile,  which  gave  a  divine  beauty  to  her  lovely  face. 
Never  to  be  forgotten,  the  evening  when  she  saw  her 
first !  Carmela,  though  only  ten  years  old,  had  felt 
her  heart  swell  with  adoration  for  the  lovely  creature 
who  had  seemed  to  her  something  unearthly ;  she 
had  longed  to  kiss  her  tiny,  flying  feet.  And  now, 
as  recollections  of  the  past  crowded  upon  her — as 
she  thought  of  the  creature  who  had  been  so  marvel- 
lously, so  strangely  beautiful,  whose  existence  had 


12  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

been  one  of  boundless  luxury  and  limitless  pleasure, 
who  had  possessed  palaces  and  villas  of  princely 
splendour,  and  lovers  by  the  score,  and  who  yet  had 
been  torn  away  from  life  in  the  fulness  of  her  youth 
and  beauty — as  she  thought  of  all  this,  Carmela  felt 
an  intenser,  more  burning  desire  to  heap  flowers — 
masses  of  flowers — on  her  tomb ;  the  horror  of  her 
poverty,  of  her  helplessness,  seized  her.  And  she 
turned  round  instantly,  and  went  courageously  back 
to  Lamarra. 

*  Listen  !  listen !'  she  said  hastily,  as,  panting  and 
pale  with  emotion,  she  touched  Lamarra's  arm. 
*  You  ought  to  make  me  a  wreath  of  fresh  flowers  for 
fifteen  francs.' 

Lamarra,  struck  by  the  intense  feeling  she  dis- 
played, said  in  a  friendly  tone  : 

*  My  child,  it  is  not  possible.' 

/  Try — please  try  to  make  it  for  me,'  she  stammered, 
more  and  more  agitated,  and  repressing  her  sobs  with 
difficulty. 

*  Flowers  are  very  dear,'  observed  Lamarra,  already 
relaxing  a  little  the  implacable  dignity  of  the  first 
florist  in  Naples. 

*  Never  mind  ;  you  can  make  it  smaller — for  fifteen 
francs — fifteen  francs ' 

*  But  must  I  contribute  to  it  myself,  perhaps  ?' 
cried  Lamarra,  with  pretended  anger,  but  moved, 
in  spite  of  himself,  by  the  poor  girl's  pallor  and 
trembling  voice. 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  13 

*  Yes,  please  ;  be  charitable.  It  is  a  great  charity. 
I  have — only  fifteen  francs,'  she  added  in  the  lowest 
voice,  dizzy  v^ith  mortification,  feeling  as  if  she  were 
really  a  beggar. 

*  Well — very  well,'  said  the  florist  suddenly. 
They  were  silent.     Carmela  leant  against  the  wall 

with  downcast  eyes,  and  as  she  took  the  fifteen  francs 
out  of  her  poor  little  purse  the  keen  eyes  of  the  florist 
noted  that  only  three  francs  were  left  in  it. 

*  Where  shall  I  send  it  ?'  he  asked. 

*  I  will  take  it.     I  shall  carry  it  myself.' 

*  It  is  not  made  yet.' 

*  I  will  wait.' 

He  went  into  the  other  room,  gave  an  order,  and 
returned. 

*  You  have  ordered  it  ?  How  have  you  ordered  it  V 
she  asked  anxiously. 

*  Of  white  chrysanthemums.' 

*  Ah,  that  is  right.     Please  put  a  few  roses.' 

*  Monthly  roses — yes,  we  can  put  a  few.' 
'  Yes,  yes ;  some  roses,  I  beg  of  you.' 

The  florist  went  again  into  the  room  at  the  back 
of  the  shop,  and  Carmela  waited  patiently,  standing 
on  the  damp,  flower-strewn  floor,  and  jostled  con- 
tinually by  arriving  and  departing  customers.  The 
air  was  full  of  the  faint  perfume  of  autumn  flowers. 

When  he  returned  Lamarra  passed  close  to  Car- 
mela in  order  to  take  out  of  the  window  a  huge  bunch 
of  white  roses — magnificent  hothouse  roses — and  he 


i 

14  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

began  to  fasten  them  to  a  palm-branch,  arranging 
them  with  great  taste  and  skill. 

*This  wreath  is  for  your  mother?'  he  asked 
curiously,  but  with  benignity. 

*  No,'  said  Carmela  ;  *  it  is  for  my  godmother.' 

*  Oh  !     You  were  very  fond  of  her,  then  ?' 

*  Yes,  very ;  and  I  love  her  now  as  much  as  ever.' 

*  And  she  was  old  when  she  went  to  Paradise  ?' 

*  No ;  she  was  young  and  beautiful.  She  looked 
like  an  angel,'  she  added  with  half-closed  eyes,  as  if 
to  recall  some  radiant  vision. 

*  What  are  we  poor  mortals  ?'  said  the  florist  philo- 
sophically.    *  Did  she  die  lately  ?' 

*  No,  six  years  ago.     I  was  eighteen '  and  her 

eyes  filled  with  tears. 

'  Don't  think  of  it,'  said  the  florist  soothingly,  as 
he  finished  arranging  the  roses ;  and  taking  up  a 
superb  ribbon  of  white  moir^-antique,  knotted  it 
round  the  bouquet,  leaving  long  floating  ends,  on 
which  was  inscribed  in  gold  letters  :  *  Dearest  Maria, 
wait  for  me. — Carlo.' 

Carmela,  who  watched  everything  with  the  closest 
attention,  exclaimed  : 

*  Couldn't  you  put  a  ribbon  or  an  inscription  on 
my  wreath  ?' 

*  Yes ;  now  we  must  write  a  letter  on  the  wreath 
all  in  flowers !'  exclaimed  Lamarra  ironically. 

*  At  least,  her  name — only  her  name,'  persisted 
Carmela,  clasping  her  hands. 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  15 

'  What  was  her  name  ?' 

*  She  was  called  Amina  Boschetti,'  answered 
Carmela,  in  a  low  voice. 

*  The  name  of  our  great  dancer,  Boschetti  ?' 

*  It  was  she — she  was  my  godmother,'  said  poor 
Carmela,  while  two  large  tears  rolled  down  her 
cheeks. 

Lamarra  looked  at  her  with  surprise.  She  was  so 
miserably  clad ;  she  held  in  her  hands  such  an  old, 
old  umbrella ;  her  poor  black  gloves  were  so  white  at 
the  seams  that  the  florist,  as  he  recalled  the  brilliant 
goddess  of  the  dance,  upon  whose  every  graceful 
movement  thousands  had  gazed  in  almost  delirious 
ecstasy,  found  it  difficult  to  believe  that  the  person 
before  him  could  have  had  any  connection  with  so 
dazzling  a  creature. 

*  She  was  my  benefactress,  in  life  and  death,'  said 
Carmela,  with  an  impetuous  burst  of  gratitude,  *  and 
I  ought  to  remember  her  always.' 

'  She  was  a  grand  lady,  good,  and  beautiful,  and 
generous,'  answered  the  florist. 
'  You  kuew  her,  then  ?' 

*  Yes.  The  flowers  I  have  taken  to  the  theatre  for 
her  on  certain  evenings !  I  made  a  good  deal  of 
money  out  of  the  men  who  went  mad  about  her. 
But  she  used  to  laugh  at  them  all,  I  remember. 
What  evenings  those  were!  She  seemed  a  fairy 
when  she  danced.' 

*  And  now  she  is  dead,'  answered  the  girl,  with  a 


i6  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

breaking  voice.     *  Since  you  knew  her,  I  pray  you  to 
write  her  name  on  the  wreath,  with  the  roses.' 

The  mid-day  cannon  was  booming  when  Carmela, 
joyously  carrying  her  wreath,  entered  the  railway- 
station.  After  having  thought  over  ways  and  means 
with  the  profound  consideration  peculiar  to  people 
of  infinitely  small  means,  who  are  obliged  to  count 
every  penny,  she  had  decided  that  it  would  be  better 
for  her  to  take  the  train.  There  are  hundreds  of 
omnibuses  which  go  to  Paggioreale  on  All  Saints' 
Day,  but  they  are  crammed  with  people  and  go  very 
slowly.  Carmela  did  not  know  whether  she  would 
have  been  allowed  to  enter  an  omnibus  with  her 
large  wreath,  which  would  have  greatly  incommoded 
the  other  passengers.  Again,  on  All  Saints'  Day 
there  are  thousands  of  small  and  large  cabs  which  go 
to  the  cemetery,  but  the  least  they  ask  is  five  francs. 
The  wreath  was  so  large  and  heavy  that  she  could 
not  walk,  as  she  would  have  done  had  she  not  been 
so  heavily  burdened.  Lamarra,  as  a  homage  to  the 
memory  of  the  divinity  of  San  Carlo,  had  made  the 
wreath  so  beautiful !  Within  the  border  of  white 
chrysanthemums  there  was  another  of  small  pale 
pink  ones,  and  the  words  *  To  Amina  Boschetti ' 
were  woven  in  pink  rosebuds — modest,  monthly  rose- 
buds, but  fresh  and  dewy.  Carmela  did  not  feel  the 
weight  of  the  wreath ;  she  walked  on  quietly,  happy 
in  her  sacrifice,  and  deeply  touched  by  the  kindness 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  17 

of  the  florist  who  had  deigned  to  accept  her  poor 
fifteen  francs ;  she  reflected  that  her  godmother's 
name  had  been  the  taHsman  which  had  touched  the 
heart  of  Lamarra.  Oh,  not  for  her  own  sake  !  Plain, 
and  ungraceful,  and  timid,  notwithstanding  her  pro- 
fession, perhaps  even  because  of  it,  since  it  caused 
her  to  feel  her  defects  the  more  keenly,  she  was  dis- 
trustful of  anything  like  flattery,  and  crushed  by 
the  consciousness  of  her  poor  clothes  and  hopeless 
poverty. 

Carmela  passed  through  the  world  alone,  expecting 
nothing,  and  so  void  of  hope  that  a  kind  word  or  act 
would  move  her  to  tears ;  the  miracle  of  having  ob- 
tained these  flowers — which  she  thought  magnificent 
— seemed  to  her  immense,  and  it  was  all  because  the 
beloved  name  of  the  great  artist  had  been  pronounced 
in  the  florist's  shop.  Absorbed  in  these  thoughts,  she 
walked  on  quickly,  looking  to  neither  right  nor  left, 
but  as  she  passed  Gambrinus's,  the  most  fashionable 
cafe  in  Naples,  she  happened  to  raise  her  eyes  and 
saw,  standing  before  the  door,  Count  Ferdinando 
Terzi  di  Torregrande.  He  stood  with  his  usual  air 
of  haughty  indiflerence,  his  magnificent  blue  eyes,  as 
cold  and  hard  as  steel,  fixed  on  the  gray  November 
sky,  his  hands  plunged  deep  in  the  pockets  of  his 
English  coat,  a  Havana  cigar  between  his  lips. 
Whether  he  waited  for  someone  or  was  waited 
for  did  not  transpire  from  his  manner  or  the 
expression  of  his  countenance,  which  was  as  cold 

2 


i8  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

and  immovable  as  marble.  The  exquisitely  pure 
lines  of  his  face,  the  absolutely  correct  oval,  the 
perfect  aquiline  nose,  the  finely  and  firmly  chiselled 
chin,  the  broad  brow,  the  large,  well-opened  blue 
eyes,  the  classically  beautiful  mouth,  with  the  full- 
red  lips  and  regular  white  teeth,  the  blond  curling 
hair  and  moustache — all  formed  an  ensemble  of  in- 
comparable beauty.  But  if  the  lines  of  his  face  were 
beautiful  they  were  hard  and  cruel  as  well ;  the  profile 
was  stern,  the  glance  of  the  blue  eyes  cold  and 
indifferent,  and  sometimes  full  of  contemptuous  irony ; 
the  brow  betrayed  the  presence  of  a  constant  pre- 
occupation, veiled  by  the  glacial  pride,  the  cruel 
disdain,  which  was  the  dominant  expression  of  the 
face. 

Carmela  Minino  knew  the  Count  di  Torregrande 
by  sight.  He  was  an  annual  subscriber  to  a  place  in 
the  front  row  of  armchairs  at  San  Carlo,  and  never 
failed  to  come  to  the  theatre,  late  every  evening, 
arrayed  in  irreproachable  evening  -  dress,  with  a 
gardenia  in  his  button-hole,  and  a  certain  military 
rigidity  of  demeanour  which  enhanced  his  native 
elegance  and  distinction,  and  was  a  souvenir  of  the 
time  when  he  had  been  an  officer  in  a  cavalry 
regiment.  His  face,  therefore,  was  familiar  to  all 
the  ballet-girls,  but  was  particularly  so  because  he 
was  the  protector  of  the  beautiful  Emilia  Tromba, 
the  leader  of  the  first  row  of  dancers,  who,  though 
she  danced  carelessly  and  never  paid  her  fines  (which 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  19 

were  numerous),  always  was  sure  of  an  engagement 
because  of  her  splendid  beauty,  and  always  had 
money,  jewels,  and  carriages  in  abundance.  She 
was  a  great  favourite  with  the  regular  habitues  at 
San  Carlo,  notwithstanding  her  loud  vulgarity,  harsh 
voice,  and  quarrelsome  disposition. 

Ferdinando  Terzi  di  Torregrande  sometimes,  but 
rarely,  waited  for  Emilia  at  the  wings.  On  such 
occasions  he  never  deigned  to  speak  to  any  of  the 
dancers,  but  stood  in  haughty  silence,  glancing  at 
them  with  the  proud  eyes  which  at  once  fascinated 
and  repelled,  shrugging  his  shoulders  slightly  when 
he  heard  Emilia  disputing  in  her  parrot-like  tones 
with  the  dresser,  the  scene-shifter,  or  the  fireman,  as 
the  case  might  be,  but  never  departing  himself  from 
the  impassibility  of  the  grand  seigneur — remaining 
the  grand  seigneur  in  spite  of  his  connection  with  the 
more  than  vulgar  Emilia.  Nearly  every  evening  his 
coupe  waited  for  her  at  the  door  of  the  theatre,  but 
it  was  almost  always  empty. 

As  she  thought  of  these  things,  Carmela  found 
herself  staring  hard  at  the  young  nobleman  ;  but  he, 
naturally,  did  not  see  her,  and  turned  and  re-entered 
the  cafe.  Involuntarily  Carmela  heaved  a  profound 
sigh,  and  suddenly  the  way  seemed  long,  and  the 
weight  of  the  wreath  of  flowers  she  carried  almost 
intolerably  heavy.  But  she  conquered  this  moment 
of  discouragement;  it  was  growing  late,  the  sky 
threatened  rain,  and  if  it  should  rain,  she  could  not 

2 — 2 


20  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

have  opened  her  umbrella,  as  her  hands  were  occupied 
by  her  wreath. 

When  she  entered  the  little  station  she  found  an 
enormous  crowd,  and  instantly  perceived  that  she 
would  not  find  even  standing-room  in  a  third-class 
carriage.  She  felt  so  oppressed,  so  weak  and  poor, 
so  wounded  somewhere  in  the  innermost  depths  of 
her  soul,  that  she  forgot  her  usual  anxious  provident 
economy,  and  bought  a  second-class  ticket,  paying 
eighteenpence  to  go  to  Nola  Baiano  and  return. 
Even  the  second-class  was  jammed  to  suffocation ; 
everyone  was  going  to  the  cemetery.  One  carried  a 
package  of  candles  to  burn  before  the  tombs ;  another 
a  small  wreath  of  false  pearls ;  another  a  wreath  of 
yellow  immortelles,  upon  which  was  an  inscription 
in  letters  of  black  velvet;  others  carried  flowers; 
some  people  took  nothing  at  all;  but  all — men, 
women,  and  children — were  dressed  in  black,  and 
nearly  all  were  sad  and  silent ;  many  doubtless 
oppressed  by  the  recollection  of  long-passed  sorrows, 
others  still  wincing  under  the  agony  of  a  recent 
wound;  some  grown  mournfully  indifferent,  but 
oppressed  by  the  melancholy  of  the  scene,  the  painful 
journey,  the  gray,  overhanging  sky. 

Most  of  the  people  who  travelled  by  train  that  day 
were  small  shopkeepers,  or  mechanics,  or  servants, 
and  not  a  few  belonged  to  the  religious  congregations 
which  throng  the  chapels  of  Paggioreale,  and  which 
form  a  vast  association  of  mutual  aid,  an  immense 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  21 

burial  society,  to  which  belong  most  Neapolitans  of 
the  lower  class. 

Carmela  was  silent ;  she  pulled  her  coarse  black 
veil  over  her  face  and  bent  down  her  head,  oppressed 
by  the  melancholy  of  her  surroundings  and  her  own 
sad  thoughts ;  she  felt  so  deserted  and  alone. 

^  Paggioreale !  Paggioreale !'  shouted  the  con- 
ductor, as  they  approached  the  little  station;  and 
instantly  the  train  was  emptied,  as  if  by  magic, 
and  the  travellers,  carrying  their  offerings,  hastened 
to  climb  the  hill  leading  to  the  cemetery. 

The  gate  of  the  cemetery  was  surrounded  by 
vehicles  of  all  kinds — omnibuses,  caleches,  char-a- 
bancs,  carts,  coupes — all  waiting,  the  horses  eating 
their  fodder,  the  coachmen  smoking  and  chatting 
quietly,  or  looking  for  a  restaurant  in  which  to  eat 
and  drink  in  comfort  while  their  fares  were  away 
on  their  lugubrious  errand.  Notwithstanding  the 
gloomy  November  day,  and  the  gray,  low-hanging 
sky,  the  cemetery  of  Paggioreale  (which  occupies  one 
of  the  loveliest  hills  near  Naples)  still  preserved  its 
usual  aspect — that  of  a  vast,  blooming,  and  splendid 
palace  garden  ;  and  the  beds  of  brilliant  flowers  which 
encircle  the  graves,  the  hedges  of  bay  and  yew  which 
border  the  shady  walks  and  divide  them  from  the 
fields  paved  with  mortuary  slabs,  the  groves  of  trees 
where  the  birds  sing  all  day,  the  taller  trees  which 
overshadow  the  tiny  chapels  and  miniature  churches 
with  which  the  cemetery  is  crowded — all  this  luxury 


22  THE  BALLET  DA NCER 

of  beauty  and  ornament  preserves  in  all  seasons  an 
aspect  of  grandeur  and  dignity,  like  an  aristocratic 
park,  with  here  and  there  a  pretty  or  a  majestic 
building. 

Gardeners  work  all  the  year  round  in  these 
enclosures,  under  the  direction  of  a  person  who  loves 
this  beautiful  cemetery,  and  here  bloom  the  lovely 
roses  for  which  Naples  is  so  famous,  as  well  as 
chrysanthemums  of  every  shade.  The  whole  vast 
space — even  the  poorer  quarter  of  the  cemetery — is 
enamelled  with  these  charming  flowers ;  a  sweet 
spring  smiles  here  in  the  very  face  of  death,  so  that 
Paggioreale  is  never  sad  in  its  blooming  solitude. 
But  on  All  Saints'  Day  the  avenues  are  crowded  by 
persons  dressed  in  black.  The  doors  of  the  various 
mortuary  chapels,  churches,  and  large  monuments 
are  all  open,  tapers  gleam  within,  clouds  of  incense  fill 
the  air  with  a  perfume  which  mingles  with  that  of 
innumerable  flowers,  and  the  whole  scene  has  some- 
thing strange  in  it ;  it  is  like — if  such  a  thing  could 
be — a  vast  mortuary  fair,  or  some  mysterious  function 
for  the  dead  to  which  all  the  world  has  been  sum- 
moned to  assist. 

Carmela  joined  the  crowd,  which  climbed  slowly 
to  the  top  of  the  hill,  where  the  finest  monuments 
are  to  be  found.  The  avenue  through  which  they 
passed  was  bordered  by  a  low  wall,  covered  with 
marble  slabs,  and  each  slab  was  a  monument,  with 
a  date  of  some  thirty,  forty,  or  fifty  years  before. 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  23 

Carmela  read  two  or  three  inscriptions,  and  then  had 
a  movement  of  indifference.  What  mattered  it  to 
her  that  all  these  people — men,  women,  and  children, 
now  dead — had  died  so  long  ago  ?  They  were 
nothing  to  her,  and  perhaps  nothing  to  anyone 
about  her.  Forty — fifty  years  !  Too  long,  surely, 
for  the  dead  to  be  remembered  by  the  living. 

Here  and  there,  among  the  beds  of  roses  and 
cinerarias,  and  all  those  pretty,  small,  gray,  lilac 
and  purple  autumn  flowers  which  God  seems  to  have 
created  for  the  service  of  the  dead,  groups  of  two 
or  three  persons  busied  themselves  about  the  flat 
tombstones,  cleaning  them  with  tender  care,  laying 
wreaths  upon  them,  and  planting  tall  wax  tapers  in 
the  earth  beside  them,  tapers  which  burned  with  pale 
tongues  of  flame  in  the  broad  daylight.  Every  now 
and  then  someone  would  kneel  on  the  ground  and 
pray,  regardless  of  passers-by,  or  the  silence  would 
be  broken  by  sobs  from  the  mourners  about  some 
recent  grave,  generally  women  closely  veiled  ;  while 
from  every  chapel,  and  church,  and  mausoleum  rose 
the  strains  of  the  *  De  Profundis '  and  the  '  Libera,' 
and  against  the  dark  rocky  walls  within  gleamed 
the  light  of  innumerable  tapers,  and  the  perfume  of 
incense  floated  in  the  air. 

Carmela  Minino,  exhausted,  feeling  an  unbearable 
oppression  in  soul  and  body,  could  hardly  proceed  ; 
a  wild  desire  possessed  her,  a  wild  wish  to  throw 
away  her  wreath,  and  to  fall  face  downward  on  the 


24  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

earth  and  weep— weep  until  death  came  to  take  her 
where  she  lay ! 

Suddenly,  as  if  by   magic,   the   lofty   monument 
dedicated  to  Amina  Boschetti  rose  before  her.     It 
stood  in  a  quadrangle  bordered  by  tall  cypress-trees, 
and  was  surrounded   by  beds  of  fragrant  flowers  ; 
opposite  was  the  mortuary  chapel  belonging  to  the 
princes  of  Santenero ;  and  on  the  left  the  memorial 
church   built   in   honour  of  the   young  Duchess  of 
Naja;  but  the  dancer's  mausoleum  was  larger  and 
grander  than  that  of  either  of  the  two  patricians. 
The   architecture   was    purely   Egyptian,   an    exact 
imitation  of  one  of  the  tombs  of  the  Pharaohs,  built 
in  dark  granite  and  shining  gray  basalt ;  the  bronze 
doors,  finely  modelled  and  delicately  finished,  were 
wide  open,  and  so  were  the  gates  which  enclosed 
the  flower  garden.     Looked  at  from  a  distance,  the 
Egyptian  temple  which  enclosed  the  airy  form  of  the 
dancer  looked  heavy  and  clumsy,  as,  in  fact,  this 
form  of  architecture   always   appears,   even   in   the 
land  to  which  it  belongs ;    but  a  nearer  approach 
revealed  the  majesty  and  grandeur  of  the  lines,  and 
the  first  glance  at  this  splendid  mausoleum  sufficed 
to  tranquillize  Carmela  and  give  her  courage.     The 
name    'Amina    Boschetti,'   inscribed    in    letters   of 
gilded    bronze   above   the   door,    seemed    to    infuse 
new   life   in   her   veins,  and,  as   she   gradually   ap- 
proached the  magnificent  temple  where  the  wealth 
and  beauty  and  power  of  her   godmother  received 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  25 

the  consecration  of  a  supreme  triumph  even  in  death, 
a  certain  exaltation  took  possession  of  Carmela's  soul, 
which  caused  her  little  heart  to  swell  with  tender 
pride.  All  her  sad  feelings  were  replaced  by  a 
strange,  inexplicable  sensation,  which  yet  was  not 
pain,  as  she  entered  the  temple,  piously  crossing 
herself. 

The  mausoleum  was  richly  adorned  in  honour  of 
Amina  Boschetti's  memory.  Four  magnificent  silver 
lamps,  in  which  votive  oil  was  burning,  suspended 
by  massive  silver  chains,  hung  from  the  ceiling; 
four  tall  and  richly-ornamented  taper  stands,  sup- 
porting huge  wax  tapers,  were  placed  before  the 
small  funeral  altar,  which  had  been  arranged  below 
the  stone  which  covered  the  body  of  the  dead  girl. 
The  floor  and  walls  of  the  mausoleum  were  literally 
covered  by  the  freshest  and  rarest  flowers.  Loose 
flowers  covered  the  pavement  and  were  heaped  on 
the  tomb.  A  priest,  assisted  by  two  others,  all 
arrayed  in  the  richest  vestments  compatible  with 
the  ceremonies  of  the  day,  was  celebrating  the 
twelfth  Mass  that  had  been  said  that  day.  He  had 
succeeded  other  priests,  and  other  priests  would 
succeed  him  until  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
Two  acolytes,  meanwhile,  swung  silver  censers,  from 
which  rose  clouds  of  perfume,  and  on  either  side  of 
the  entrance  stood,  silent  and  motionless,  two  lackeys 
in  gorgeous  livery — the  livery  of  the  banker  Schulte, 
who  had   adored  the  graceful  ballet-dancer  in  life, 


26  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

had  heaped  wealth  upon  her,  and  now,  faithful  even 
in  death,  in  a  strange  mixture  of  love  and  mysticism 
and  cynicism,  honoured  her  memory  with  all  the 
splendour  allowed  by  the  Catholic  ritual.  He  had 
come  early  to  the  mortuary  chapel  that  day,  had 
arranged  the  flowers  himself,  and  had  prayed  for 
an  hour.  He  could  not  console  himself,  nor  forget. 
One  of  the  lackeys  took  Carmela's  wreath,  in  order 
to  place  it  near  the  altar. 

*0n  the  tomb — on  the  tomb  itself!'  she  mur- 
mured, trembling  with  an  emotion  which  was  not 
all  pain,  which  almost  was  not  pain  at  all. 

And  when  the  wreath  had  been  placed,  leaning 
against  the  marble  monument,  just  where,  behind 
the  cold  stone,  reposed  the  colder  heart  of  Amina 
Boschetti,  her  goddaughter  knelt  on  the  carved  prie 
dieu  in  front  of  the  altar,  and  there,  where  Otto 
Schulte  had  prayed  an  hour  before,  she  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands  and  wept.  While  the  priest 
prayed,  pronouncing  the  solemn  and  mournful  words 
of  the  Mass  for  the  Dead,  while  the  cry  of  the 
Christian  soul,  which  implores  mercy  before  the 
eternal  Judge,  rose  up  in  the  old  immortal  words 
of  the  liturgy,  Carmela  could  not  pray.  Instead, 
she  saw  before  her,  as  vividly  as  in  life,  the  fair 
creature  for  whom  that  rich  mausoleum  had  been 
built,  for  whom  lamps  and  tapers  burned,  and 
flowers  gave  forth  their  perfume,  and  the  priests 
before  the  altar  offered  up  the  Mass.     And  she  saw 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  27 

a  delicate,  spiritual  face,  two  large  dark  eyes,  at 
once  smiling  and  thoughtful,  a  smile  curving  lips 
exquisite  in  form  and  expression,  a  fascination 
emanating  from  every  movement — a  fascination  all 
beauty,  grace,  youth,  and  poetry,  something  fugitive, 
and  airy,  and  ineffable,  which  seemed  to  flash  and 
glimmer  as  she  moved  in  her  floating  draperies,  and 
which  fascinated  not  only  the  old,  but  the  young, 
not  only  men,  but  women. 

Amina  Boschetti !  She  shone  upon  the  dim,  over- 
crowded theatres  like  a  star !  Slight  as  a  reed,  her 
small  head  crowned  with  masses  of  dark  waving  hair, 
her  delicate  form  clad  in  a  glittering  corselet  and 
clouds  of  white  tulle,  her  tiny  feet  shod  in  pink  silk 
stockings  and  slippers,  she  scarcely  touched  the  earth 
as  she  danced,  and  moved  with  such  airy  lightness 
that  her  feet  seemed  to  be  weaving  mystic  ciphers  on 
the  flower-strewn  stage.  And  she  smiled  the  while 
with  eyes  and  lips,  her  flexible  form  swaying  like  a 
flower  in  the  wind.  Fatigue  never  assailed  her  ;  she 
danced  as  if  she  had  come  to  the  earth  for  that, 
and  that  alone.  And  the  charm  of  her  art  rapt  all 
classes,  all  ages,  in  a  common  ecstasy.  An  adoring 
public  loaded  her  with  gifts  and  offerings,  hearts  and 
fortunes  alike  were  laid  at  her  feet,  and  she  accepted 
all — love  and  wealth,  and  jewels  and  lands — as  if  all 
were  hers  by  an  imprescriptible  right — the  right  of 
the  incomparable  grace  of  her  airy  dance. 

She  had  villas  at  Portici  and  Pausilippo,  palaces 


e 


^:  J) 


28  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

in  Naples,  sumptuous  furniture,  the  richest  equipages, 
jewels  worthy  of  a  reigning  Sovereign,  and  she 
accepted  all  and  possessed  all  with  the  same  girlish, 
thoughtless  grace,  giving  in  return  her  beauty  and 
her  art.  Carmela  Minino  from  infancy  had  admired 
and  loved  her  as  a  divinity.  To  Carmela  all  this 
delirium  of  admiration  seemed  natural  enough ;  had 
the  whole  world  been  thrown  at  Amina's  feet,  the 
homage  would,  in  Carmela's  opinion,  have  been  no 
more  than  her  due. 

The  Mass  was  drawing  to  its  close.  But  Carmela, 
though  she  was  a  humble  and  sincere  Christian,  had 
not  yet  prayed  for  the  soul  of  her  godmother.  She 
had  been  absorbed  in  her  recollections,  and  she 
remembered  how  the  beautiful  ballet-dancer  had 
illumined  her  modest  little  life,  so  full  of  gloom  and 
poverty,  and  how  she  used  to  go  to  see  her  in  her 
magnificent  palace  at  Naples  or  the  lovely  villa  at 
Portici,  surrounded  by  gardens  and  looking  out  upon 
the  sea. 

Carmela's  mother,  whose  trade  was  that  of  a 
mender  of  silk  tights,  had  known  the  Boschetti. 
When  she  was  beginning  her  career,  and  later,  when 
she  was  in  full  glory,  Bettina  Minino  received 
from  her  her  cast-off  silk  tights  and  stockings  and 
pink  satin  shoes.  None  of  these  things  were  much 
worn,  and  Bettina  used  to  sell  them.  At  this  time 
Carmela  was  ten  years  old  and  had  splendid  dark 
eyes   and   hair.      She   promised   to   be   pretty,   and 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  29 

though  this  promise  was  never  fulfilled,  the  eyes  and 
hair  were  still  handsome. 

When  her  mother  was  working  for  the  Boschetti, 
Carmela  used  to  sit  in  a  corner  of  the  hall  and  wait. 
Sometimes  the  Boschetti  would  flit  past,  clad  in  the 
white  woollen  gowns  she  always  wore  at  home. 
Every  time  she  passed  she  smiled  at  the  little  girl  or 
patted  her  on  the  head,  and  the  child's  eyes  would 
brighten  at  the  radiant  apparition. 

*  Eh  !  Have  her  taught  to  dance  !  have  her  taught 
to  dance  !'  said  the  Boschetti,  when  Bettina  would 
groan  as  she  thought  of  her  child's  future. 

*  And  if  she  should  be  ugly,  Excellency  ?' 

*  Let  us  hope  not.' 

*  And  if  she  should  lose  body  and  soul  in  the 
theatre  ?' 

*  What  is  lost  can  be  found  again,'  replied  the 
Boschetti,  laughing. 

It  ended  by  the  Boschetti's  paying  twenty-five 
francs  a  month  for  years,  in  order  that  Carmela  might 
be  taught  to  dance. 

Alas  !  poor  little  Carmela  lacked  grace  and  light- 
ness and  animation.  She  studied  hard,  she  worked 
enormously,  she  was  obedient,  submissive  to  the 
master's  admonitions,  but  she  lacked  the  qualities 
necessary  for  a  dancer.  And  when  she  was  about 
sixteen,  instead  of  blooming  out  into  a  pretty  girl, 
she  seemed  to  fade.  Her  complexion  grew  thick  and 
opaque,  her  lips  pale,  the  lines  about  her  chin  and 


30  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

cheek-bones  hardened.  Perhaps  she  ate  too  little ; 
perhaps  she  danced  too  much  ;  perhaps  she  suffered 
from  the  lack  of  light  and  air,  there  being  little  of 
either  in  the  Vicolo  Paradiso.  But  certain  it  is,  hers 
was  a  pale,  faded  youth,  her  only  good  points  being 
her  beautiful  eyes,  both  proud  and  sad,  and  her 
superb  hair — beauties  which  she  shared  in  common 
with  all  Neapolitans  of  the  lower  classes. 

*  My  dear  lady,  she  is  ugly — ugly !'  said  Bettina 
Minino  to  her  benefactress,  with  many  tears. 

*  Patience !  If  she  is  ugly  she  will  not  lose  her 
soul,'  answered  the  Boschetti,  smiling. 

And,  owing  solely  to  her  powerful  influence,  Car- 
mela  Minino  was  accepted  as  a  member  of  the  corps 
de  ballet  at  San  Carlo,  but  in  the  very  last  row,  at 
two  francs  and  a  half  for  every  night  she  danced,  and 
with  the  condition  of  furnishing  herself  her  silk 
tights  and  slippers,  tulle  skirts  and  bodices ;  obliged 
also  to  come  to  the  theatre  with  her  hair  well  dressed, 
or  to  have  it  dressed  by  the  stage  hairdresser — with 
so  many  obligations,  in  short,  that  the  two  francs  and 
a  half  were  reduced  to  nothing.  In  fact,  her  being 
allowed  to  dance  at  San  Carlo  at  all  was  esteemed 
a  favour,  although  she  danced  in  the  very  last  row, 
because  poor  Carmela  was  ugly,  and  ugly  dancers 
were  not  wanted  at  San  Carlo,  and  her  face  was  so 
dull ;  she  never  smiled,  and  her  eyes  were  so  sad  ! 
Still,  she  danced,  and  with  her  own  earnings  and 
those    of   her   mother,   and    the   twenty-five   francs 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  31 

allowed  them  by  the  Boschetti,  they  managed  to  get 
on,  when,  suddenly,  Amina  Boschetti  died. 

The  Mass  was  over;  the  priest,  aided  by  two 
assistants,  sprinkled  the  tomb  with  holy  water,  and 
instead  of  praying  for  her  who  for  six  years  had  slept 
the  eternal  sleep  of  death  beneath  the  granite  mauso- 
leum, Carmela  thought  of  Amina  Boschetti's  death. 
She  had  seen  her  dance  for  the  last  time  in  a  magni- 
ficent Egyptian  ballet,  *  The  Daughters  of  Cheops.' 

The  two  daughters  of  Cheops  were  represented  by 
a  tall,  beautiful  girl,  Assunta  Mezzanotti,  afterwards 
an  actress  of  small  reputation,  and  another  sister,  the 
rival,  was  Amina  Boschetti,  the  star  of  the  piece. 
For  many  nights,  clad  in  an  Oriental  dress  laden 
with  antique  jewels,  and  with  the  golden  ibis  crown- 
ing her  dark  hair,  Amina  Boschetti  had  danced,  and 
had  done  more  :  she  had  lifted  the  ballet  to  the  rank 
of  a  drama,  almost  a  tragedy. 

The  daughters  of  Cheops  were  rivals  in  love,  and 
the  younger,  crossed  in  love,  died  by  her  own  hand. 
In  the  last  scene  she  appeared  at  a  sacred  feast, 
beautiful  with  a  strange,  fatal  beauty,  covered  with 
gold  and  precious  stones,  and  with  an  ecstatic  and 
intoxicating  smile  upon  her  lips  and  the  light  of  mad- 
ness in  her  gleaming  eyes.  And  then  began  the 
religious  dance  with  a  serpent — the  serpent  sacred  to 
the  Egyptian  deities — which  she  wound  round  her 
arms,   her   body,  trifling  and   playing  with   it,  and 


32  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

swaying  in  graceful  curves  as  the  serpent's  head 
approached  her  head  and  face,  throwing  it  suddenly 
aside  in  pretended  terror,  then  winding  the  serpent 
round  her  in  a  whirling  dance.  And  as  the  passion 
of  the  dance  increased,  Amina's  thick  hair  fell  upon 
her  shoulders  ;  she  danced  with  mad  intensity,  as 
if  convulsed,  until  the  supreme  moment  when  she 
placed  the  serpent's  head  on  her  bare  bosom,  was 
bitten,  and  fell  and  died,  amid  the  horror  of  the 
spectators. 

In  this  ballet,  and  especially  in  the  last  scene, 
Amina  Boschetti  passed  beyond  the  limits  of  a  ballet- 
dancer  ;  she  became  a  really  great  tragic  actress,  and 
profoundly  moved  her  admiring  audience. 

Four  days  after  the  theatre  was  closed  for  the 
season,  and  four  days  after  her  last  brilliant  triumph, 
Amina  Boschetti  died  suddenly,  cut  off  in  the  heyday 
of  her  youth  and  beauty  by  the  rupture  of  an  aneur- 
ism. No  one  had  known  that  her  heart  was  affected ; 
perhaps  she  alone  had  known  it. 

To  Carmela's  limited  intelligence  her  fairy  god- 
mother had  seemed  a  supernatural  being — a  thing  of 
dreams.  And  now  the  surroundings,  the  temple-like 
mausoleum,  the  silver  lamps,  the  incense,  the  flowers, 
the  ceaseless  prayers,  the  love,  the  splendour  which 
that  love  had  heaped  upon  Amina's  grave — did  not 
all  these  things  prove  that  she  was  an  enchantress 
still  ?  Was  she  not  only  unforgotten,  but  unforget- 
able,  like  the  supreme  essence  of  poesy  ?     No  new 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  33 

artist  had  ever  awakened  the  same  ardent  enthusiasm ; 
she  was  still  lamented  whenever  a  new  dancer  ap- 
peared at  San  Carlo ;  her  place  was  still  empty  there, 
as  in  the  heart  of  her  lover.  And  no  one,  nothing, 
had  ever  taken  her  place  in  Carmela  Minino's  poor 
and  obscure  existence.  And  now,  alone,  kneeling 
before  the  beloved  name  inscribed  on  the  tomb, 
Carmela  promised  and  vowed  to  do  always  what  her 
dead  godmother  had  wished  her  to  do.  Hers  was 
a  hard,  wearisome  profession,  full  of  dangers  and 
troubles,  bringing  her  only  hei:  bare  bread,  leaving  her 
whole  months  without  work,  exposing  her  to  the  illu- 
sions and  humiliations  and  disappointments  of  the 
horrible  theatre,  giving  her  the  choice  between  starva- 
tion and  dishonour,  destined,  perhaps,  to  reduce  her 
to  beggary  or  the  hospital.  But  what  did  it  matter  ? 
Amina  had  chosen  it  for  her ;  and  Carmela  bowed 
her  head  in  acquiescence,  in  a  very  delirium  of 
obedience  and  devotion,  which  overleaped  death 
and  the  grave.  And  in  this  fever  of  love  and 
sacrifice  Carmela  entirely  forgot  to  pray.  With  the 
childish  simplicity  so  common  in  Neapolitans  of  the 
lower  classes,  and  the  naive  hopefulness  of  a  passion- 
ate heart,  she  told  herself  that  she  was  certain  that 
the  Lord  had  forgiven  all  Amina  Boschetti's  sins. 

Carmela  reached  Naples  at  five  o'clock.  It  was 
almost  dark.  This  time,  in  order  to  reach  home 
more   quickly,   she  turned  away  from  the  railway- 

3 


34  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

station  and  crossed  Via  Cirillo  and  Via  Faria.  By 
the  time  she  reached  the  National  Museum  the  rain 
began  to  fall  thick  and  fast,  and  fearing  to  spoil  her 
clothes,  she  turned  into  the  arcade  called  the  Galleria 
del  Principe  di  Napoli,  where  hundreds  of  other 
people  without  umbrellas,  or  with  worn-out  um- 
brellas, were  waiting  for  the  rain  to  pass.  It  was 
late  for  Carmela  to  be  out,  and  when  the  rain  ceased 
she  went  down  the  steps  which  led  from  the  Galleria 
to  the  Toledo,  and  as  she  passed  noticed  a  superb 
coup6  which  stood  before  the  arch  of  the  Galleria. 
Standing  on  the  pavement,  and  leaning  on  the  open 
window  of  the  carriage  in  such  a  way  as  to  hide  the 
person  within,  stood  a  gentleman,  talking  earnestly 
and  listening  to  the  replies  he  received  as  eagerly  as 
he  talked.  Although  his  back  was  turned,  and  he 
had  changed  his  dress,  Carmela  instantly  recognised 
Count  Ferdinando  Terzi.  She  knew  already  that 
his  relation  with  Emilia  Tromba  was  only  a  mask  for 
a  dangerous  and  violent  passion  for  a  young  married 
woman  in  his  own  rank  of  life,  and  instinctively  she 
stopped  and  tried  to  see  the  person  who  was  sitting 
in  the  coup6.  She  knew  the  name  and  the  sweet, 
thoughtful  face  of  the  young  Marchesa  who  was 
said  to  love  Ferdinando  Terzi  with  a  passion  which 
equalled  his  own  ;  the  ballet-dancers  were  all  fond 
of  gossip  about  the  love-affairs  of  the  aristocracy. 
Carmela  was  sure  she  should  recognise  her  face  in 
a   moment.      But   the   rain   was    falling,   the    gray 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  35 

November  day  was  drawing  fast  to  darkness,  and 
though  Carmela  passed  round  the  carriage,  she 
could  distinguish  no  one.  She  walked  slowly  along 
the  opposite  pavement,  turning  once  or  twice.  The 
coupe  stood  still  in  its  place.  Ferdinando  Terzi 
turned  once  and  looked  round  suspiciously,  then 
resumed  his  conversation.  But  at  that  hour,  in  such 
weather,  so  far  from  the  aristocratic  quarter,  on  such 
a  rainy,  dark  evening,  it  was  not  likely  that  anyone 
would  recognise  either  the  occupant  of  the  coupe  or 
himself.  In  fact,  no  one  did  so  but  the  humble 
creature  who,  wet  and  weary  from  her  long  expedi- 
tion to  the  cemetery,  was  trudging  dinnerless  to  the 
lonely  room  where  a  meagre  supper  awaited  her. 

A  little  further  on,  near  Piazza  Dante,  at  the  door 
of  Gutteridge's  shop,  an  amiable  voice  interrupted 
Carmela's  meditations. 

*  Oh,  Signorina  Minino,  good-evening.  Won't  you 
even  bow  to  me  ?' 

*  Good  -  evening,  good  -  evening,'  she  answered, 
startled,  stopping  for  a  moment,  and  instantly 
regretting  having  done  so. 

*  Come  in  a  moment,  signorina,'  answered  the 
young  man,  moving  away  from  the  door. 

*  No,  I  cannot.  Signer  Gargiulo ;  I  am  in  a 
hurry.' 

*  Always  like  this.  And  where  do  you  come  from, 
always  so  nice  and  pleasant,  and  never  nice  and 
pleasant  to  me  ?     Have  you  come  from  a  rehearsal  ?' 

3—2 


36  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

'  At  this  hour  !'  she  murmured.  *  No,  I  have  been 
to  the  cemetery.' 

*  Excuse  me,'  said  Gargiulo,  embarrassed,  *  are 
you  going  home?  May  I  come  with  you  a  Httle 
way  ?' 

*  No,  no,  thank  you  ;  you  have  your  shop  to  attend 
to.' 

*  Oh,  it  is  so  late ;  no  more  customers  will  come 
this  evening.  I  shall  ask  a  friend  to  take  my  place  at 
the  desk.     May  I  come  with  you  ?' 

'  No,  Signor  Gargiulo,  thank  you.  Good-evening,' 
she  answered,  quickly  moving  away. 

The  young  cashier  was  a  little  annoyed,  but  he 
looked  after  Carmela's  retreating  figure  with  the 
same  fatuous  smile  which  was  his  habitual  expression. 
He  was  tall  and  thin,  olive-skinned,  with  a  dark 
moustache  of  which  he  was  vain  ;  his  black  hair  was 
cut  short  and  brushed  back  from  his  forehead,  and 
his  meagreness  was  not  devoid  of  a  certain  grace. 
He  was  fluent  and  facile  of  speech,  as  clerks  are  apt 
to  be,  and  he  had  a  certain  varnish  of  good  manners, 
with  long,  well-kept  nails,  and  a  diamond  on  his 
little  finger,  living  with  difficulty  on  his  salary  as 
cashier,  but  always  well  dressed,  as  is  usually  the 
case  with  young  clerks,  wearing  even  a  smoking-suit 
occasionally.  He  was  a  regular  frequenter  of  all  the 
theatres  and  public  halls,  and  had,  in  fact,  a  free  pass 
for  the  theatre,  given  by  a  friend  who  was  a  journalist. 
With  this  same  friend  he  sometimes  went  to  see  the 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  37 

ballet-dancers  leave  San  Carlo,  and  there  he  had 
often  seen  Carmela  Minino  pass,  invariably  alone,  and 
he  had  spoken  to  her  occasionally  in  order  that  he 
too  might  seem  to  have  a  ballet-dancer  under  his 
protection. 

*  Let  her  alone,'  his  friend  had  murmured  in  his 
ear.     *  She  is  ugly,  and  she  is  an  honest  girl.' 

*  Are  you  certain  of  that  ?' 

*  Absolutely  certain.  There  are  eight  or  ten  of  the 
girls  who  dance  at  San  Carlo  who  are  still  perfectly 
honest  women.     The  Minino  is  one  of  them.' 

*  Then  it  would  be  dangerous  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  her  ?' 

'  Naturally.' 

Nothing  more  had  passed  between  them,  but 
whenever  he  met  her  Roberto  Gargiulo  never  failed 
to  speak  to  Carmela,  to  make  her  marked  compli- 
ments, and  pointed  hints  and  allusions  to  his  feeling 
for  her.  She  answered  little  or  nothing,  and  always 
managed  to  get  rid  of  him  and  go  away  as  quickly  as 
possible.  But  Gargiulo,  who  had  made  one  or  two 
conquests  in  his  own  little  world,  was  convinced  that 
if  he  persisted  in  courting  her  and  were  to  give  her 
a  present  or  two,  Carmela  Minino  would  end  by 
falling  in  love  with  him.  Was  it,  however,  worth 
while  for  him  to  insist,  now  that  he  knew  that  she 
was  an  honest  girl  ?  worth  while  to  risk  the  con- 
sequences, to  bear  the  chain  of  such  a  relation  ? 
Perhaps   later — who  knew  ?     And  meanwhile,  every 


38  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

time  she  cut  short  his  pretty  speeches  he  smiled  the 
fatuous  smile  of  the  seducer  who  does  not  insist. 

Carmela  quickened  her  steps  toward  Pignasecca. 
She  had  shrugged  her  shoulders  as  she  left  Roberto 
Gargiulo.  She  neither  liked  nor  disliked  him,  but  in 
dealing  with  him  she  used  the  weapons  of  defence 
usually  employed  by  women  who  are  afraid  of  loving 
and  going  wrong.  Believing  herself  even  plainer 
than  she  really  was,  she  was  instinctively  and  almost 
savagely  afraid  of  any  attention  from  men.  She  felt 
so  convinced  that  such  attentions  were  a  mere  trap 
to  make  her  fall,  that  she  might  be  despised  and 
laughed  at  afterwards.  Conscious  of  her  own  in- 
feriority and  insignificance  in  the  great  social  system, 
feeling  herself  a  poor  atom  without  strength  or 
courage,  she  felt  vaguely  that  some  day  this  would 
happen.  But  meanwhile  she  struggled  bravely  on 
from  day  to  day,  repulsing  everyone  alike,  and 
adopting  all  the  means  of  defence  in  her  power, 
however  puerile.  She  avoided  the  company  of  others, 
or  any  chance  of  making  new  acquaintances,  and 
became  daily  more  shy  and  ungraceful.  She  received 
very  little  attention,  being  so  plain  and  lonely  and 
badly  dressed,  and  dancing  always  in  the  last  row  of 
dancers  without  a  single  jewel  or  flower  in  her  hair ; 
but  every  now  and  then  someone,  Roberto  Gargiulo, 
or  Don  Gabriele  Scagnamiglio,  the  Cavaliere  Gabriele 
Scagnamiglio,  the  rich  druggist,  an  habitu^  of  San 
Carlo,  who  lived  in  the  Piazza  della  Pignasecca,  or 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  39 

the  son  of  the  stage-director — one  or  other  of  these 
personages  would  pursue  her  for  a  week,  saying 
always  the  same  words,  wanting  the  same  thing,  to 
make  her  fall  into  sin,  and,  fallen,  to  abandon  her 
at  once. 

No,  no,  she  would  have  none  of  them ;  she 
avoided  them  as  much  as  she  could,  and  cut  short 
their  compliments  without  mercy. 

*  Good-evening,  Donna  Carmelina,'  said  a  man's 
voice  as  she  entered  the  piazza  of  the  Pignasecca. 

*  Here  is  the  other,'  murmured  Carmela  to  herself. 
*  Good-evening,  cavaliere.' 

It  was  Don  Gabriele  Scagnamiglio,  the  rich  drug- 
gist, an  unrepentant  celibate,  a  famous  admirer  of 
women,  a  man  already  more  than  fifty-five  years  old, 
whose  white  beard  was  always  well  trimmed  and 
perfumed,  who  was  always  neat  and  well  dressed, 
wearing  full  dress  every  evening,  knowing  how  to 
talk  to  the  fair  sex,  but  cold  and  calculating  to  the 
very  depth  of  his  soul. 

*  Donna  Carmela,  will  you  dine  with  me  at  Frisio 
this  evening  ?' 

*  Thanks,  cavaliere ;  I  have  already  dined.' 
*Then  we  will   go   together  to  the  caf6  concert, 

Donna  Carmela.  What  do  you  say  to  that  ?  After 
midnight  we  will  have  supper.' 

*  Good-evening ;  good  amusement,  cavaliere,'  she 
said  hastily,  walking  on. 

'  You  are  really  and  truly  a  goose.  Donna  Carmela ; 


40  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

you  will   repent  it,'  he  answered,  laughing,  as  he 
called  a  cab  to  go  to  his  dinner. 

Ah !  when  she  was  at  home,  in  the  damp  room  on 
the  fourth  floor,  a  mortal  weariness  oppressed  her. 
With  a  great  effort  she  dragged  herself  to  the  table, 
where  she  lit  a  petroleum  lamp,  and  with  an  equal 
effort  she  went  into  the  kitchen,  lit  a  fire,  and  cooked 
two  eggs  which  she  had  in  the  house.  She  had 
nothing  else  for  supper,  and  would  have  died  of 
hunger  rather  than  crawl  down  the  four  pairs  of 
stairs  to  buy  herself  something  else.  She  was 
mortally  tired,  and  oppressed  by  a  sense  of  moral 
lassitude  and  secret  melancholy;  and  as  she  ate 
her  meagre  supper  on  a  corner  of  the  bare  kitchen 
table,  and  by  the  light  of  a  smoky  lamp,  she  thought 
that  she  was  a  goose,  as  Don  Gabriele  Scagnamiglio 
had  said.     But  she  did  not  regret  it  that  evening. 


II 

A  BELL  rang  loudly,  and  continued  to  tinkle  near 
the  little  kitchen  window.  Carmela  put  her  head 
out,  and  looked  down  into  the  narrow,  dark,  damp 
court,  upon  which  all  the  other  kitchen  windows 
opened.  Down  at  the  very  bottom  she  saw  a  female 
face  looking  up. 

*  Donna  Carmela,  is  it  time?  Can  I  come  up?' 
said  a  rough  female  voice  from  the  depths. 

*  Come  up — come  up,  Gaetanella  !'  she  replied. 
She  returned  to  her  room,  and  took  up  the  work 

at  which  she  had  been  toiling  slowly  and  patiently, 
although  it  was  Sunday.  This  work  was  the  careful 
mending  of  her  best  pair  of  silk  tights,  which,  to  her 
sorrow,  was  beginning  to  show  signs  of  wear  and 
tear. 

She  possessed  three  pairs  of  tights,  and  had  not 
bought  a  new  pair  for  a  long  time ;  the  oldest  pair 
was  so  worn  and  discoloured  that  by  the  light  of  the 
footlights  it  looked  quite  white,  and  she  could  no 
longer  wear  it.  She  still  kept  it,  however,  for 
economical  reasons.  The  second  pair  of  tights  was 
still  pink,  but  she  no  longer  dared  to  wear  it  at  San 
Carlo ;  she  only  used  it  in  the  summer,  when  she 


42  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

danced  at  Santa  Maria  di  Capua,  or  Lecce,  or 
Catanzaro,  provincial  theatres  where  artists  only  go 
for  bare  bread,  and  do  not  always  get  that.  At  San 
Carlo,  where  the  impresario,  the  ballet-master,  and 
the  stage-director  were  all  equally  exacting  and 
brutal  with  regard  to  the  dress  of  the  ballet-girls, 
the  tights,  the  silk  slippers,  and  the  tulle  skirts, 
almost  all  things  which  the  girls  were  expected  to 
pay  for,  Carmela  did  not  dare  to  wear  any  but  her 
best  tights,  and  she  daily  examined  and  mended 
them  with  the  most  scrupulous  care,  trembling  lest 
she  should  have  to  buy  a  new  pair  at  twenty-eight 
francs !  Her  mother  had  taught  her  her  own  poor 
trade,  that  of  a  mender  of  silk  tights — taught  her, 
probably,  that  she  might  not  die  of  hunger. 

Gaetanella,  the  hairdresser,  entered  without  knock- 
ing, and,  after  having  saluted  her  client,  let  down  the 
white  apron  which  she  wore  twisted  round  her  waist, 
and,  taking  a  towel,  spread  it  over  Carmela's 
shoulders,  as  she  sat  before  an  old-fashioned  looking- 
glass. 

*  So  there  is  a  ballet  to-day,  Donna  Carmela  ?' 

*  Yes,  twice — a  day  and  an  evening  ballet,  my  dear 
Gaetanella.' 

*  What !  this  very  last  Sunday  in  carnival  ?' 
'You  know  we  dance  twice  a  day  the  last  four 

Sundays  of  carnival.  There  are  no  holidays  for  us,' 
sighed  the  dancer. 

*  To-morrow,  too  ?     And  the  day  after  to-morrow  ?' 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  43 

said  the  hairdresser,  as  she  shook  out  and  combed 
Carmela's  long  rich  hair. 

*The  two  last  days  of  carnival.  Double  repre- 
sentation,' murmured  Carmela.  *  On  such  days  we 
just  die  of  fatigue.' 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  moment.  The  hair- 
dresser was  a  young  woman,  short,  pitted  with 
small-pox,  with  a  coiffure  which  made  her  abundant 
dark  hair  look  like  a  helmet,  with  a  little  blue  woollen 
shawl  crossed  over  her  bosom,  and  a  garnet-coloured 
gown  of  coarse  wool.  She  wore  heavy,  creaking, 
high-heeled  shoes.  As  she  arranged  Carmela's  hair 
with  a  mechanical  rapidity  which  was  marvellous, 
her  thin,  brown,  bony  hands,  laden  with  coarse 
rings,  were,  in  certain  movements,  grotesquely  like 
a  monkey's  paws. 

*And  this  evening  you  get  home  late?'  said 
Gaetanella,  as  she  tied  a  thick  lock  of  hair  with  a 
shoelace. 

*  About  an  hour  after  midnight.' 

*  All  alone  ?     Are  you  not  afraid  V 

*  Yes,  sometimes.' 

All  the  misery  of  this  return  from  the  theatre  late 
at  night,  alone,  by  an  unfrequented  route,  and  through 
a  quarter  of  the  city  where  she  was  exposed  both 
to  danger  and  annoyance,  was  written  on  her 
face. 

*  I  would  make  some  relation  accompany  me,'  said 
Gaetanella. 


44  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

'  I  have  not  a  relation  in  the  world.  Perhaps  a 
friend  would  accompany  me  if  I  would  allow  it,  but 
I  cannot.' 

*You  do  right,'  responded  Gaetanella  promptly, 
understanding  what  she  meant.  *  May  the  Madonna 
preserve  you  in  the  same  disposition  of  mind.' 

Gaetanella  knew  that  the  ballet-dancer  was  an 
honest  girl.  In  the  Vicolo  Paradiso,  where  she 
lived,  everyone  knew  that  Carmela  Minino  always 
returned  home  alone ;  that  she  received  no  visits, 
no  letters,  and  no  flowers;  that  she  went  alone 
to  the  theatre  and  to  church ;  and  that  she  was 
so  poor  because  she  had  no  protector.  From  the 
fruit  -  seller,  a  hideous  witch  who  scolded  from 
morning  till  night,  to  the  charcoal  vendor,  who, 
with  hands  as  black  as  the  coal  she  sold,  knitted 
a  dirty  stocking  at  the  door  of  her  grimy  shop  ;  from 
the  pastry-cook  Don  Santo,  who  sold  ices  in  summer, 
to  the  bootblack  on  the  corner,  a  boastful  rascal — 
everyone  praised  Carmela's  virtues. 

The  edifice  which,  in  accordance  with  the  reigning 
fashion,  the  spare,  alert  hands  of  Gaetanella  were 
erecting  on  Carmela's  head,  began  to  take  the  tower- 
like aspect  then  in  vogue. 

*  Lift  up  the  fringe,  please,  Gaetanella.' 

The  fringe  covered  half  her  forehead;  it  was 
already  rather  out  of  fashion,  but  Carmela  had 
always  worn  it. 

'  You  will  look  very  badly  without  the  fringe,'  said 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  45 

Gaetanella,  stopping,  and  looking  at  Carmela  in  the 
glass. 

*I  know  it!'  exclaimed  the  coryph6e,  sighing; 
'  but  on  the  stage  no  one  wears  it  any  longer.  They 
laugh  at  me  because  my  coiffure  is  so  old-fashioned.' 

*  Don't  mind  them  ;  they  are  envious.' 

*  Even  the  director  of  the  ballet  has  scolded  me. 
Try  to  lift  it  up,'  she  repeated. 

In  fact,  Gaetanella  was  already  lifting  up  the 
fringe  with  invisible  hairpins.  Carmela's  forehead, 
already  too  high,  appeared  bare  and  nude ;  her  long 
face  longer  than  ever. 

*  How  much  uglier  I  am  with  my  hair  like  that !' 
she  said,  as  she  looked  at  herself.  Her  tones  were 
as  full  of  sincerity  as  of  bitterness. 

*  Yes,  you  do  not  look  well  like  that.  Now  I  will 
let  down  your  fringe  again.' 

*  Never  mind,'  said  Carmela  resignedly.  *  I  prefer 
not  to  be  scolded.' 

While  Gaetanella  put  the  last  touches  to  the 
coiffure  by  adding  big  glittering  aigrettes  and  pins 
of  false  pearls,  emeralds,  and  diamonds,  Carmela 
looked  in  the  glass  again,  and  thought  herself  uglier 
than  ever.  Her  bare  forehead  seemed  enormous. 
She  did  not  open  her  lips.  The  hairdresser  had 
finished.  She  pulled  the  fallen  hairs  out  of  the 
comb,  twisted  them  into  a  ball,  which  she  placed 
on  the  toilet-table;  she  blew  into  her  hands,  and 
rolled    the    white    apron    anew    round    her    waist. 


46  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

Carmela  took  fourpence  out  of  her  pocket,  and 
handed  them  to  her  in  payment  for  her  work.  In 
point  of  fact,  Gaetanella  usually  was  paid  by  the 
month  by  all  the  women  in  the  neighbourhood — 
three  or  four  francs  a  month,  which  reduced  the 
daily  payment  to  twopence  a  head.  But  Carmela 
arranged  her  own  hair,  except  on  ballet  days,  so 
there  was  no  question  of  a  monthly  payment  for 
her.  As  there  was  a  ballet  at  San  Carlo  fifteen  days 
out  of  every  thirty,  it  came  to  nearly  the  same  thing 
in  point  of  expense ;  but  the  poor  coryphee  preferred 
to  pay  each  time  her  hair  was  dressed ;  the  fourpence 
did  not  then  weigh  so  heavily  upon  her.  Furlai,  the 
theatre  hairdresser,  asked  six  and  often  eight  francs 
a  month.  Carmela  could  not  think  of  such  a  price 
as  that ;  she  had  no  protector,  old  or  young. 

*  To-morrow — at  what  hour  ?'  said  Gaetanella,  on 
the  threshold. 

*  Always  at  two  precisely,  I  beg  of  you.' 

*  Don't  be  afraid  ;  I  will  be  here.' 

The  door  closed.  Carmela  crossed  the  room  to 
look  at  an  old  silver  watch  which  her  mother  had 
left  her;  it  was  half-past  two.  She  must  hurry. 
When  there  was,  as  to-day,  a  double  representation, 
the  impresario  compelled  the  ballet-girls  to  be  at 
San  Carlo  at  three  o'clock,  the  hour  when  the  opera 
began.  If  they  did  not  arrive  until  half-past  three 
they  were  fined  a  franc  ;  after  that  hour  they  for- 
feited the  payment  for  their  day's  work.      It  was 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  47 

cruelty,  the  girls  thought,  to  oblige  them  to  be  there 
three  hours  before  the  ballet  began,  in  the  bare,  ill- 
smelling  rooms,  warmed  only  by  the  gas-burners, 
where  four,  eight,  or  twelve  girls,  as  the  case  might 
be,  were  forced  to  dress  and  undress  in  the  same 
room.  But  complaints,  protests,  and  outcries  were 
alike  useless ;  there  was  no  trifling  with  the  rules  of 
the  theatre. 

On  Sundays  they  were  forced  to  be  in  the  theatre 
at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  could  not  leave 
it  until  an  hour  after  midnight — thirteen  hours  of 
hard  work  and  wearisome,  enforced  idleness,  shut  in 
with  glaring  gaslight  and  the  evil  odours  of  many 
breaths,  nasty  cheap  perfumes,  and  other  smells, 
more  nauseating  still.  Many  of  the  girls  availed 
themselves  of  the  hour's  rest  allowed  between  the 
morning  and  evening  representations  and  ran  home 
for  a  few  minutes.  But  was  it  not  worse  to  dress, 
undress,  run  home,  and  run  back  ?  A  dog's  life, 
truly,  in  carnival,  when  all  the  world  amuses  itself ! 

So,  with  that  monotony  of  gesture  which  indicates 
long-established  habit,  Carmela  put  in  a  long  narrow 
pasteboard  box  her  white  tarlatan  skirts.  They  were 
new,  and  fresh,  and  floating,  as  tarlatan  always  is  at 
first ;  but  after  one  or  two  evenings  how  crushed  and 
faded  they  would  be  !  She  added  her  pink  satin 
slippers,  no  longer  new,  alas  !  and  only  wearable  for 
two  or  three  more  evenings ;  and  they  cost  four 
francs  !    She  put  in  also  two  or  three  little  china  pots 


48  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

containing  a  little  rouge,  a  little  cold  cream,  a  little 
pearl-powder.  With  these  she  placed  a  semi-bald 
little  powder-puff  and  a  hare's  foot  nearly  bare  of  fur. 
Was  there  nothing  else  ?  No,  nothing.  Her  forlorn 
baggage  of  third-rate  ballet-dancer,  with  a  salary  of 
three  francs  and  a  half  a  day,  was  complete  in  its 
perfect  poverty. 

Suddenly,  for  a  moment  only,  she  was  overwhelmed 
with  melancholy.  She  thought  of  Emilia  Tromba, 
who,  although  only  a  dancer  in  the  first  row — nothing 
more  than  a  guide — simply  because  she  was  beautiful, 
shameless,  and  insolent,  could  bring  to  the  theatre  a 
necessaire  of  solid  silver,  with  her  monogram  engraved 
upon  it.  All  the  little  pots  and  bottles  in  the  neces- 
saire  were  filled  with  the  finest  and  rarest  cosmetics, 
which  Emilia  used  liberally,  laughing,  screaming, 
and  cursing  the  while  with  the  coarse,  rough  voice 
which  contrasted  so  strangely  with  her  pure  and 
exquisite  beauty;  and  had  not  this  necessaire  been 
given  by  Count  Ferdinando  Terzi  ?  The  gentleman 
with  the  cold  blue  eyes  which  were  so  limpid  and 
proud,  and  who  surveyed  everything  and  everybody 
with  the  same  glance  of  superb  indifference,  had 
presented  this  gift  (costing  more  than  a  thousand 
francs,  it  was  said)  to  Emilia  on  her  birthday,  ap- 
parently just  to  make  the  other  ballet-dancers  envious. 

But  it  was  late.  Carmela  called  the  son  of  the 
portress,  an  urchin  of  twelve  years  old,  and  gave  him 
her  box  to  carry.     The  boy  carried  it  every  day  to 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  49 

San  Carlo  and  home  again  for  a  few  pence  a  week. 
Carmela  would  have  been  ashamed  to  carry  this  box 
through  the  streets ;  it  would  have  been  an  adver- 
tisement of  her  profession,  and  people  would  have 
turned  to  look  at  her. 

When  the  boy  had  gone,  jumping  down  four  steps 
at  a  time,  Carmela,  reflecting  on  the  thirteen  hours 
of  imprisonment  which  lay  before  her,  put  two  slices 
of  bread  in  a  newspaper.  The  bread  was  spread 
thickly  with  the  Sunday  ragout,  which  she  had  cooked 
herself.  To  this  she  added  a  red  apple  and  a  knife 
with  which  to  peel  it.  She  folded  her  lunch  up 
neatly,  and  prepared  to  carry  it  under  her  arm,  glad 
to  have  a  mouthful  to  eat  between  the  afternoon  and 
evening  representations.  She  went  towards  the  bed, 
and  repeated  mentally  an  A  ve  Maria  to  the  Madonna 
of  Pompeii  which  hung  at  the  head  of  the  bed ;  three 
Gloria  Patris  to  Sant'  Antonio,  for  whom  she  had  a 
special  devotion  on  account  of  the  graces  obtained  by 
him — thirteen  a  day  ;  and  finally  she  put  her  rosary 
in  her  pocket  from  force  of  habit. 

As  she  went  to  put  on  her  hat  before  the  glass  she 
saw  a  letter  lying  on  the  toilet  -  table.  This  she 
opened  and  reread.  The  letter,  written  in  a  style 
half  romantic  and  half  burlesque,  was  from  Roberto 
Gargiulo,  the  cashier  of  Gutteridge's  shop.  The  young 
man  that  winter  had  been  often — too  often — at  San 
Carlo,  and  hearing  that  all  the  regular  habitues  of 
the  theatre  had  each  a  chere  amie  among  the  ballet- 

4 


50  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

dancers — hearing  continually  of  the  conquests  of  this 
or  that  Don  Juan,  seeing  Carmela  dance  every  even- 
ing, knowing  that  she  had  not  a  lover  and  was  very 
modest  and  reserved,  without  being  absolutely  un- 
approachable, he  had  ended  by  making  her  declara- 
tions of  affection  in  prose  and  verse — the  verses  he 
copied  wherever  he  could  find  them — and  he  used  to 
wait  for  her  at  the  door  of  the  theatre.  His  dream 
would  have  been  to  sit  in  a  fauteuil  in  evening  dress, 
with  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole,  but  he  was  only  a 
poor  clerk  in  a  shop  !  Carmela  persisted  in  saying 
*  No  '  with  the  constant  and  desperate  iteration  of 
the  blindly  obstinate,  but  the  letters  did  not  displease 
her.  And  she  obeyed  an  impulse  of  vanity  in  putting 
Roberto  Gargiulo's  last  letter  in  her  pocket,  a'  letter 
which  she  had  not  answered. 

Whenever  they  had  a  few  minutes'  rest  in  the  big 
rooms  where  they  dressed  the  ballet-dancers  used  to 
read  over  the  letters  received  from  their  admirers. 
And  at  twenty  minutes  before  three,  punctual  as  a 
soldier,  Carmela  Minino,  shivering  a  little  in  her 
black  cloth  mantle,  and  holding  her  package  of  food 
carefully  concealed  under  her  arm,  issued  from  the 
door  of  the  house,  and  with  light,  cautious,  measured 
steps,  took  her  way  to  San  Carlo. 

They  were  eight  in  the  large,  oblong  room — the 
eight  ballet-dancers  of  the  third  row  :  Checchina 
Cozzolino,  with   a  swelled,  flabby  face,  black   hair, 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  51 

and  little  Chinese  eyes ;  she  was  the  daughter  of  a 
portress,  and  was  protected  by  the  physician  of  the 
theatre  ;  she  was  full  of  presumption,  but  never  had  a 
penny  to  buy  even  a  package  of  pearl-powder.  Rosina 
Musto,  forty  years  old,  ugly,  and  rather  awkward, 
but  always  witty  and  cheerful,  having  for  her  pro- 
tector a  shopkeeper  who  dealt  in  groceries — Sam- 
brini,  who  had  a  shop  in  the  Via  Baglivo  Dries. 
Carlotta  Musto,  her  sister,  younger  by  ten  years,  who 
had  married  a  machinist,  separated  from  him,  and 
now  had  a  mysterious  jealous  lover,  whom  no  one 
ever  saw.  Marietta  Sanges,  a  blonde,  with  feet  and 
hands  like  those  of  a  carter,  and  so  tall  that  she 
dwarfed  the  other  dancers ;  she  had  a  notary  as  a 
protector,  and  he  generously  allowed  her  a  hundred 
and  fifty  francs  a  month,  most  of  which  she  prudently 
saved,  with  a  view  to  the  time  when  the  notary 
should  have  taken  flight.  Giuseppina  Mastrachio, 
daughter  of  the  second  male  dancer,  small,  thin, 
cross,  the  mother  of  two  children,  whom  she  vainly 
tried  to  impose  upon  her  various  lovers.  Margharita 
de  Santis,  a  pretty,  graceful,  elegant  creature,  with 
the  pallor  and  white  lips  of  the  anaemic,  always  ill 
and  continually  taking  pills  and  powders ;  fortunate, 
however,  in  her  protector,  a  rich  leather  merchant, 
who  supported  her  liberally.  And,  finally,  Filomena 
Scoppa.  Filomena,  though  only  eighteen,  was  pru- 
dent as  well  as  honest.  She  intended  to  marry, 
and  marry  well,  having  small  faith  in  troublesome, 

4—2 


52  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

jealous,  and  avaricious  lovers,  who  often  abandoned 
their  mistresses  without  a  word  of  preparation. 

The  six  ballet-dancers  already  mentioned,  who 
were  all  more  or  less  well  provided  with  lovers, 
affected  to  despise  the  two  honest  girls  Carmela  and 
Filomena,  and  they,  in  their  turn,  looked  down  upon 
the  others.  Carmela  preserved  a  proud  silence ; 
Filomena  was  noisy  and  impertinent.  She  was  a  fat, 
stupid  girl,  pretty  as  dimples  and  a  pink  and  white 
complexion  could  make  her,  but  she  was  both  dirty 
and  slovenly. 

Now  all  the  ballet-girls  were  dressing  for  the 
*  Excelsior,'  and  were  doing  so  as  noisily  as  possible, 
laughing,  shouting,  screaming,  upsetting  chairs,  and 
producing  an  endless  confusion.  Most  of  them  had 
loud,  harsh,  nasal  voices,  some  hoarse  and  low- 
pitched,  others  sharp  and  grinding,  and  all  vulgar. 
The  Neapolitan  dialect  was  spoken  almost  without 
exception,  though  here  and  there  a  Lombard  or  Pied- 
montese  accent  was  heard. 

Curses,  obscene  words,  flew  about  like  hail  in  a 
storm.  All  the  girls  were  too  nervous  and  hurried 
to  care  what  they  said,  though  here  and  there  some 
of  the  more  prudent  ones  affected  to  be  shocked  at 
the  others. 

The  dressing-rooms  were  little  more  than  long, 
lofty  corridors  with  wooden  floors,  the  boards  of 
which  were  so  badly  joined  that  the  ballet-girls 
frequently  spoiled  the  wooden  heels  of  their  shoes, 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  53 

as  well  as  their  pink  satin  dancing-slippers ;  but  as 
the  impresario  did  not  furnish  the  shoes,  he  did  not 
care  how  many  they  spoiled.  The  walls  of  the 
dressing-room  were  roughly  whitewashed,  and  great 
blotches  of  damp  showed  through  the  whitewash,  as 
if  the  walls  were  afflicted  with  an  ignoble  leprosy ; 
three  huge  gas-jets  projected  above  the  dressing- 
table,  and  flared  broadly,  heating  the  air  to  furnace 
heat,  and  illuminating  mercilessly  a  table  which  ran 
the  length  of  the  room,  and  was  the  common 
property  of  the  eight  dancers  who  inhabited  it.  It 
was  loaded  with  looking-glasses,  washbowls,  vases  of 
rouge,  cold  cream,  pearl-powder,  and  brushes,  hair- 
pins, and  false  jewels.  Before  this  table  stood  the 
dancers,  half  dressed,  painting  and  powdering  them- 
selves, rubbing  their  arms  with  cold  cream,  fastening 
artificial  flowers,  or  strass,  in  their  hair,  or  tightening 
their  corsets  to  the  point  of  suffocation.  And  all 
this  in  a  strange  hurry  and  confusion,  accompanied 
by  the  protests  and  grimaces  of  the  more  modest 
and  ill-formed,  who  hated  to  dress  and  undress  before 
the  others,  while  some  of  the  girls  boldly  lounged 
about  in  their  chemises,  complaining  of  the  heat. 
And,  indeed,  the  dressing-room  was  as  hot  as  a 
furnace,  and  reeked  with  the  odour  of  perspiration 
and  many  breaths,  and  numberless  cosmetics  and 
cheap  perfumes.  On  the  rickety  chairs  were  thrown 
the  various  costumes  for  *  Excelsior ' ;  the  girls  hung 
their  out-of-door   clothes    on   nails   which   ran    the 


54  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

length  of  the  wall.  Poor  enough  they  were — partly 
because  those  who  had  decent  garments  were  afraid 
of  spoiling  them  if  they  brought  them  to  the  theatre, 
but  mainly  because,  as  a  rule,  the  poor  things  had 
no  decent  clothes  to  wear,  so  poorly  were  they  paid, 
and  often  their  lovers  were  anything  but  generous. 

Marietta  Sanges  and  Carlotta  Musto,  who  had  men 
of  substance  for  protectors,  were  comfortably  clad, 
with  silk  underskirts  and  coloured  corsets ;  the  other 
coryphees  wore  the  coarsest  cotton  underclothes,  and 
knitted  cotton  stockings ;  their  corsets  were  those 
which  are  sold  for  three  francs  and  a  half. 

Filomena  Scoppa,  who  was  as  remarkable  for  dirt 
as  for  virtue,  had  hung  up  a  petticoat  which  was 
soaked  in  mud,  and  a  pair  of  stockings  which  were 
absolutely  filthy. 

*But  you — you  will  wash  your  face,  I  hope!* 
screamed  Checchina  Cozzolino,  disgusted. 

*  Think  of  your  own  dirty  doings !'  replied  Filo- 
mena insolently. 

They  were  all  more  or  less  nervous,  and  furiously 
cross  at  having  to  dance  on  these  carnival  days, 
when  everybody  was  either  resting  or  indulging  in 
some  amusement.  And,  then,  the  being  forced  to 
dance  twice  within  twelve  hours,  only  snatching  a 
mouthful  of  food  between  the  morning  and  evening 
representations,  and  fasting  until  long  after  midnight, 
being  forced  to  leave  their  homes  and  their  lovers  to 
come  and  'trip  the  light  fantastic  toe'!     Ardently 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  55 

did  they  hate  the  day  representations,  made  for 
children  and  their  nurses,  and  for  the  families  of  the 
smaller  shopkeepers.  From  such  a  tiresome  public 
no  solid  benefit  could  be  expected,  and  the  ballet-girls 
hated  it  accordingly.  In  the  evening,  when  all  the 
fine  gentlemen  were  in  their  stalls,  there  was  some- 
thing to  look  forward  to,  for  there  was  always  the 
chance  of  acquiring  protectors  of  importance,  and 
the  triumph  of  tearing  them  away  from  the  countesses, 
duchesses,  and  marchionesses  of  the  best  society,  who 
were  supposed  to  adore  them.  Many  of  the  best 
ballet-dancers  stayed  away  altogether  in  the  daytime. 
In  fact,  a  matinee  of  the  *  Excelsior '  was  but  the 
shadow  of  the  real  thing. 

*  Concetta  Giura  is  not  here,'  said  Carlotta  Musto 
to  her  sister  Rosina.  '  Lucky  girl  to  be  able  to  stay 
away !' 

'  And  you — couldn't  you  stay  away  just  as  well  ? 
Is  it  necessary  for  you  to  dance  ?' 

*  Yes,  it  is — very,'  answered  Carlotta,  who  always 
made  a  mystery  of  her  affairs. 

'  Meanwhile  she  is  at  Sorrento  with  the  Duke 
of  Sanframondi.  They  won't  get  back  until  this 
evening.' 

*  Does  he  spend  much  ?' 

*  A  good  deal ;  but  not  as  much  as  he  used  to  do,' 
answered  Carlotta,  who  was  always  well  posted. 

Several  of  the  girls  sighed.  Checchina  Cozzolino, 
who  never  had  a  penny  in  her  pocket,  grumbled  : 


K  ^\3-:ix..- 


56  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

*  The  devil  take  my  bad  luck !' 

A  loud  knock  at  the  door  startled  them  all ;  it  was 
the  signal  to  go  on  the  stage  for  the  first  scene. 
There  was  a  general  outcry ;  no  one  was  ready. 
They  all  hurried  out,  one  after  the  other,  raising  a 
light  cloud  of  dust,  and  giving  a  final  touch  to  their 
coiffure  and  airy  tarlatan  skirts  as  they  ran  along. 
Carmela  Minino  was  one  of  the  first ;  taciturn  and 
apathetic  as  she  was,  she  was  always  ready — always 
at  her  post. 

After  the  first  movement,  they  rushed  hastily  back 
to  the  dressing  -  room  to  change,  the  accursed 
*  Excelsior  '  requiring  six  changes  of  costume  for  the 
entire  corps  de  ballet;  with  the  evening  representa- 
tion, this  compelled  them  to  dress  and  undress  twelve 
times.  They  had  danced  badly,  carelessly,  anything 
being  good  enough  for  a  matin6e.  But  the  ballet- 
master  had  scolded  them  roundly,  brutally,  as  they 
came  off  the  stage.  They  answered  with  loud 
complaints : 

*  What  a  dog's  life !' 

*  Enough  to  kill  one  !' 

'When  will  it  be  over?  I  should  like  to 
know !' 

*  For  my  part,  I  would  rather  sweep  the  streets 
than  be  a  ballet-dancer !' 

'  Lucky  the  people  who  don't  have  to  dance  for  a 
living  !' 

Carmela  Minino  was   silent,  but   her  poor  heart 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  57 

was  oppressed  by  a  vague,  intense  melancholy.  She 
felt  profoundly  the  absolute  forlornness,  the  hopeless 
limitation,  the  absence  of  any  possible  amelioration 
in  the  condition  of  those  who  followed  her  profession. 
She  was  oppressed  by  its  apparent  gaiety  and  the 
real  wretchedness  it  concealed ;  and  she  sighed 
heavily  as  she  thought  of  the  corruption  in  which 
propriety,  virtue,  honour,  and  modesty  were  almost 
inevitably  destined  to  succumb ;  but  she  could  see 
no  other  possible  future.  What  would  she  ever  be 
able  to  do  but  dance,  in  the  third  row,  dressed  as  a 
Japanese,  a  fairy,  or  a  page  ?  What  else  did  she 
know  how  to  do?  And  even  that  she  did  not  do 
well,  but  only  barely  well  enough  to  earn  her  bread 
and  keep  a  roof  over  her  head. 

All  the  other  ballet-girls  had  dreams  of  making  a 
brilliant  marriage,  or  winning  a  fortune  at  the  lottery, 
or  of  having  a  rich  and  generous  lover ;  but  Carmela 
Minino  had  no  such  dreams. 

*  Emilia  Tromba  is  not  here,  either !'  exclaimed 
the  languid,  fragile  Margharita  de  Santis  in  an 
injured  tone. 

*  She  is  at  Sorrento,  too,  with  Concetta  Giura,' 
answered  Carlotta  Musto,  who  always  knew  all  the 
news. 

*  With  Ferdinando  Terzi,  of  course  !'  murmured 
Marietta  Sanges,  the  tall  blonde,  who  hated  her 
protector,  a  notary  sixty  years  old. 

Carmela's    eyes    blinked    once    or    twice,    as    if 


58  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

dazzled.  Her  hands  trembled  as  she  dressed  for  the 
telegraph  scene. 

*  Of  course !'  exclaimed  Checchina  Cozzolino,  who 
was  as  jealous  as  she  was  poor.  *  He  never  leaves 
her.     Emilia  will  spend  all  his  fortune.' 

*  Because  he  chooses  to  spend  it,'  observed  Carlotta 
Musto,  who  was  a  person  of  experience,  and  was 
listened  to  with  respect.  *  He  does  not  love  her,' 
she  continued. 

*  He  spends  his  very  neck-bone  !' 

*  I  know  it,  but  he  does  not  care  a  straw  for  her. 
He  loves  a  lady,  a  married  lady,  with  a  husband  as 
jealous  as  a  tiger.' 

Carmela  Minino  sat  down  for  a  moment.  She 
knew  all  this,  had  heard  the  same  things  said  a 
hundred  times,  had  listened  greedily  always,  and 
always  with  an  emotion  which  she  could  not  define ; 
but  now  they  were  said  oftener. 

*  With  that  jealous  husband  Ferdinando  Terzi  may 
have  terrible  trouble  some  day,'  said  Carlotta  Musto, 
as  she  arranged  the  telegraphist's  cap  on  her  head, 
and  took  the  telegram  in  her  hand. 

*  And  Emilia  Tromba  will  be  abandoned !'  shouted 
Checchina  Cozzolino  triumphantly. 

*  God  be  praised  !'  screamed  two  or  three  others. 
Had  not  the  call-boy  knocked  at  the  door  ?     So 

Carmela  thought,  and  she  rose  and  went  out  into 
the  corridor ;  she  was  suffocated,  and  felt  like  fainting 
in  the  great  heat.     No  one  had  knocked;  she  was 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  59 

mistaken.  She  breathed  more  easily  in  the  corridor, 
alone,  leaning  against  the  wall,  and  clasping  the 
imitation  telegram  to  her  bosom  as  if  it  had  been 
a  lover's  letter.  In  another  moment  she  was  again 
on  the  stage  dancing  a  furious  galop,  in  which  the 
prima  ballerma  led  off.  Carmela  felt  faint  and  ill; 
she  danced  badly,  hit  her  head,  and  scratched  her 
hand  on  a  nail  as  she  came  off  the  stage. 

Eight  o'clock.  The  matinee  was  over,  had  been 
over  for  ten  minutes,  and  the  lights  in  the  theatre 
were  lowered.  The  machinists  were  at  work  on  the 
stage  preparing  for  *  Lohengrin ';  the  wings  were  full 
of  workmen  going  through;  dancers  were  hurrying 
out  for  an  hour's  rest — confusion  reigned  everywhere. 
Some  of  the  dancers  who  remained  sat  in  the  wings 
exhausted  with  fatigue,  and  gazing  up  at  the  ceiling 
as  if  they  expected  Heaven  knows  what !  and  others 
were  prosaically  eating  their  supper.  The  two  sisters 
Musto  had  had  their  supper  sent  from  home — lasagne 
with  a  meat  gravy  made  savoury  with  ricotta, 
sausages,  and  slices  of  pumpkin.  They  had  arranged 
for  themselves  a  corner  of  the  dressing-table,  and 
they  ate  tranquilly,  with  a  healthy  appetite,  which 
was  not  in  the  least  impaired  by  the  neighbourhood 
of  wash-bowls  full  of  dirty  water,  combs,  brushes, 
and  pots  of  rouge  and  pomatum  ;  they  were  kindly 
creatures,  and  had  invited  Checchina  Cozzolino  to 
dine  with  them  ;  but  though  she  had  no  dinner,  and 


6o  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

no  prospect  of  any,  she  was  too  anxious  to  conceal 
her  horrible  poverty  to  be  willing  to  accept,  and  had 
refused  curtly,  saying  that  she  was  not  hungry. 
Filomena  Scoppa  was  the  next  one  invited,  but  she 
had  refused  pleasantly,  and  had  run  to  a  little 
restaurant,  whence  she  returned  with  two  sous  worth 
of  bread  and  three  of  fried  fish,  which  she  devoured 
greedily,  throwing  the  bones  on  the  ground,  regard- 
less of  decency. 

Finally  the  sisters  Musto  had  pressed  Carmela  to 
dine  with  them  in  the  kindest  manner,  insisting  that 
she  must  taste  at  least  one  lasagne — their  mother  was 
famous  for  this  dish ;  but  Carmela  had  refused  with 
equal  courtesy,  declaring  that  she  felt  unable  to  eat 
anything  that  evening;  that  another  time,  perhaps 
she  might,  but  now  she  really  did  not  feel  well  enough. 
And  in  order  to  avoid  further  pressing  she  went  out  into 
the  corridor  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down.  When 
she  returned  to  the  dressing-room  the  sisters  had 
finished  their  lasagne  and  were  eating  great  slices  of 
the  famous  Neapolitan  polpettone  (meat  pounded  to 
a  paste,  mixed  with  bread-crumbs,  hard-boiled  eggs, 
pine-nuts  and  raisins).  Carmela  cautiously  took  her 
package  of  food  from  behind  her  hat,  where  it  had 
been  concealed,  and  went  softly  out ;  a  mixture  of 
pride  and  timidity  made  her  unwilling  to  eat  where 
she  could  be  seen  by  the  sisters  Musto.  She  had  re- 
fused their  invitation  because  she  knew  that  she 
never  should  be  able  to  return  their  hospitality  in 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  6l 

any  way  whatever ;  but  she  felt  the  need  of  food, 
and  going  to  the  darkest  corner  she  could  find,  she 
began  to  eat  her  poor  dinner.  Various  members  of 
the  chorus,  porters,  workmen  and  scene-shifters, 
passed  by  her,  all  looking  at  and  speaking  to  her 
with  a  rough  familiarity  engendered  by  a  common 
occupation,  a  common  destiny,  and  each  time  she 
reddened  and  stopped  eating,  mastered  by  an  un- 
conquerable shyness.  When  she  had  finished  eating 
everything  the  core  of  her  apple  remained ;  she  did 
not  know  where  to  throw  it,  there  were  so  many  people 
about.  Finally  she  went  to  the  very  back  of  the 
stage  and,  having  rolled  the  apple-core  in  a  newspaper, 
threw  both  into  a  dark  corner.  As  she  approached 
the  wings  again  she  met  the  errand-boy  carrying 
a  tray  with  a  decanter  and  glasses.  She  stopped 
him  and  asked  for  a  glass  of  water,  handing  him 
a  penny,  which  the  boy  returned,  saying  gallantly  : 

'  One  does  not  pay  for  water.' 

How  slowly  the  hours  crept  by !  At  least,  while 
the  ballet  was  in  progress,  there  was  the  excitement 
of  dancing,  the  hurry  of  dressing  and  undressing  ; 
it  was  the  waiting  which  was  so  wearisome,  so  abso- 
lutely intolerable !  Those  aimless,  listless,  useless, 
comfortless  hours  overwhelmed  Carmela  with  a  moral 
lassitude.  Sometimes  she  had  brought  her  crochet- 
work  with  her,  for  she,  like  most  of  the  girls  of  the 
lower  classes,  had  formed  the  project  of  making  a 
crochet  bed-quilt ;  but  her  companions  had  laughed 


62  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

at  her,  and  she  had  ended  by  leaving  her  work  at 
home. 

Formerly,  also,  when  her  mind  had  been  more 
tranquil,  she  had  been  used  to  say  the  rosary ;  she 
would  sit  quietly  in  her  corner  with  her  hands  in  her 
pocket,  letting  the  beads  slip  through  her  fingers 
while  she  repeated  the  Gloria  Patri,  the  Pater  Noster 
and  the  Ave  Maria  with  tireless  devotion.  Indeed, 
in  those  days  she  had  frequently  repeated  the  double 
rosary  of  fifteen  decades,  by  which  a  soul  is  delivered 
from  purgatory,  always  repeating  fervently  the 
glorious  and  the  sorrowful  mysteries  at  the  begin- 
ning of  every  decade.  Alas !  now  she  could  no 
longer  do  this.  For  some  time  past  she  had  been 
restless  and  uneasy.  She  had  lost  the  calm,  the 
steadfast  attention  of  former  years,  her  prayers  were 
dull  and  lifeless,  her  spirit  cold  and  indifferent ;  in 
truth,  profound  bitterness  had  taken  possession  of 
her  soul.  She  was  twenty-four  years  old ;  and  first 
as  a  scholar,  afterwards  as  a  ballet-dancer,  had  been 
twelve  years  in  the  theatre  without  the  occurrence  of 
a  single  pleasant  incident.  Within  the  last  six  years 
she  had  lost  her  mother,  and  her  godmother  and 
patroness,  and  though,  curiously  enough,  the  latter 
loss  had  been  the  greater  of  the  two,  the  fact  remained 
that  she  had  lost  everything  she  loved.  Twenty- 
four  years  old !  Twelve  years  of  hard  work  without  a 
sign  of  hope  for  the  future !  How  she  longed  some- 
times, with  a  real  physical  longing,  to  rest,  to  sleep  as 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  63 

much  as  she  wished,  to  eat  her  meals  comfortably 
and  not  in  such  a  strangling  hurry,  to  dress  warmly 
and  decently,  to  live,  in  fact,  like  a  human  being  and 
not  like  a  slave !     She  was  a  good  girl,  and  regarded 
these  rebellious  thoughts  as  temptations  of  the  devil ; 
but   they  returned,  they  assailed   her  daily,  caused 
partly  by  the  fact  that  she  really  needed  rest  and 
better  food,  and  partly  by  the  sight  of  the  luxuries 
indulged  in  by  the  best  ballet-dancers,  all  of  whom 
had  lovers  who  were  men  of  wealth  and  social  dis- 
tinction.    How  could  Carmela  say  her  rosary  with 
devotion  in  that  crowded  theatre,  close  to  the  stage, 
which,  as  things  were,  was  an  evil  market  for  youth 
and  beauty  ?     When  she  was  younger,  full  of  a  faith 
which  had  never  been  disturbed,  with  a  reverent  fear 
of  God,  which  was  kept  alive  by  her  constant  at- 
tendance at  Mass,  and  by  the  influence  of  her  con- 
fessor, Don   Giovanni  Parascandolo,  a   devout  and 
austere  priest,  then,  calm,  if  not  happy  in  mind,  she 
was   able   to   say   her   rosary   between   the   acts   of 
*  Norma '  or  *  Faust,'  and  to  say  it  devoutly  without 
distraction  ;    but  now,  when  her  hand  touched  the 
beads  and  she  began  to  say  the  prayers,  she  found 
herself  doing  so  mechanically,  her  restless  thoughts 
wandering   the  while   uneasily,  wandering   to   such 
frivolities  ! — to  the  letters  of  Roberto  Gargiulo  which 
she  kept  and  read,  without  caring  much   for  the 
writer ;  to  the  silk  petticoats  belonging  to  Marietta 
Sanges  and  Carlotta  Musto ;  to  her  own  poor  corset, 


64  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

bought  of  Carsona  for  two  francs  seventy-five  cen- 
times, every  bone  in  which  was  now  broken,  and 
which  she  could  not  therefore  lace  properly,  though 
it  made  her  waist  perfectly  enormous ;  and,  finally, 
to  the  dinner  being  given  at  Sorrento  to  Concetta 
Giuro  and  Emilia  Tromba  by  the  Duke  of  Sanfra- 
mondi  and  Count  Ferdinando  Terzi  di  Torregrande. 
It  would  be  a  beautiful  dinner  she  knew,  gay  with 
flowers  and  spread  on  a  table  overlooking  the  blue 
sea.  The  fare  would  be  abundant  and  delicate,  the 
wines  of  the  best. 

And  then  her  thoughts  wandered  again,  this  time 
to  Amina  Boschetti,  who  had  lived  such  a  luxurious 
life,  who  by  her  lover's  command  had  been  embalmed 
like  a  queen,  and  now  wore  in  her  grave  the  wonderful 
necklace  of  seven  rows  of  pearls  which  had  been  that 
lover's  last  gift  to  her,  and  had  cost  fifty  thousand 
francs. 

Her  meditations  were  disturbed  by  the  blare  of  the 
trumpets  in  *  Lohengrin.'  It  was  already  nine  o'clock  ; 
the  ballet  would  only  begin  at  eleven.  Carmela  rose 
with  a  sigh,  and  advanced  to  the  wings.  She  wore 
her  best  gown  of  dark  blue  cloth,  with  a  cream- 
coloured  lace  scarf  at  her  throat,  fastened  by  a  gold 
pin — two  hearts  united  by  a  chain — which  the 
Boschetti  had  given  her  when  she  was  a  little  girl. 
Carefully  kept  and  daily  rubbed  bright  with  an  old 
glove,  it  was  her  greatest  treasure,  and  typified  to 
her  simple  mind  the  union   between   her  and  her 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  65 

beloved  godmother.  Carmela  was  heavily  rouged, 
but  in  spite  of  it  she  looked  pale  as  she  leaned 
against  the  wall  wrapped  in  her  white  knitted  shawl. 
Absorbed  in  her  sad  thoughts,  she  hardly  heard  the 
rolling  chords  which  announced  the  arrival  of  the 
Swan,  the  miraculous  Swan,  who  bore  the  Cavalier 
of  the  Holy  Grail. 

Suddenly  she  started  at  the  sound  of  a  loud  laugh 
close  by — a  noisy,  feminine  laugh.  The  two  missing 
ballet-dancers,  Concetta  and  Emilia,  had  returned 
from  Sorrento,  and  were  ascending  the  stairs.  They 
arrived  with  flushed  cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes,  and 
told  the  stage-master  with  peals  of  laughter  that  they 
had  been  ill  all  day,  frightfully  ill  with  a  dangerous 
illness ;  the  physician  had  never  left  them.  And  they 
laughed  and  laughed  again  as  they  arranged  the 
flowers  they  wore  in  their  bosoms. 

'  Yes,  yes,  I  know  what  sort  of  an  illness  you  have 
had,  dear  girls  !'  roared  the  director.  *  I  will  give 
you  a  remedy — a  forfeit  of  five  francs  each.  Take 
that  for  a  healing  plaster  !' 

*  But  we  have  got  a  terrible  illness,  the  illness  of 
'ndi,  'ndoy  wailed  Concetta  Giura. 

*  Five  francs  forfeit,  my  fine  misses — five  francs 
each  1'  screamed  the  director,  furious  at  being  mocked 
by  them. 

*  I  will  give  you  five  francs  as  a  present,'  returned 
Emilia  Tromba,  smelling  her  flowers. 

The  director  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  went  off 

5 


66  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

in  order  to  avoid  saying  anything  more  to  the  two 
insolent  dehnquents. 

Concetta  and  Emiha  burst  into  a  loud,  shrill, 
vulgar  laugh.  Concetta  was  really  a  beautiful 
creature,  dazzlingly  fair,  with  rich,  copper-coloured 
hair  and  sparkling,  steel-gray  eyes.  She  was  tall  and 
graceful,  and  though  slightly  freckled,  the  freckles 
were  not  visible  at  night.  Her  hands  and  feet  were 
not  pretty,  although  she  took  great  care  of  them ; 
but  it  did  not  matter :  she  was  so  beautiful,  so  young, 
and  fresh  as  a  rose.  She  dressed  almost  always  in 
black — in  lace  and  jet  in  summer,  in  velvet  and  silk 
in  winter,  anxious  to  imitate  the  great  ladies  she  saw 
walking  in  the  streets  or  sitting  in  their  boxes  in  the 
theatre.  Especially  did  she  wish  to  imitate  the  young 
Duchess  of  Sanframondi,  the  wife  of  her  lover.  The 
Duchess  was  young  and  beautiful,  and  an  angel  in 
virtue,  and  when  Concetta  was  silent,  her  beautiful 
red  lips  pressed  together,  her  large  eyelids  cast  down, 
she  really  looked  comme  it  faut.  But  if  she  opened 
her  mouth,  her  harsh  guttural  voice  with  its  coarse 
inflections,  and  her  language — which  was  the  Nea- 
politan dialect  of  the  very  lowest  class,  and  often 
frankly  obscene — dispelled  all  illusions.  And  yet  it 
was  said  that  it  was  this  very  brutality  which  had 
made  Sanframondi  fall  in  love  with  her.  When  his 
angelic  wife  had  bored  him  to  extinction  with  her 
virtue,  her  chastity,  and  the  serene  resignation  of  a 
Christian    victim,   he   would    go   to    Concetta   and 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  67 

implore  her  to  talk  to  him  in  the  filthy  language  of 
Basso  Porto.  She  pretended  to  protest,  pretended  to 
be  angry,  but,  knowing  well  that  the  secret  of  her 
power  over  him  lay  not  merely  in  her  beauty  but 
in  the  vileness  of  her  language,  she  always  allowed 
herself  to  be  persuaded,  and  as  the  hideous  words 
fell  from  her  lovely  lips,  Sanframondi  would  roar  with 
laughter  and  kiss  her  passionately,  forgetting  his  wife 
and  children,  his  losses  at  play,  and  the  debts  which 
were  eating  away  his  fortune.  Concetta  this  evening 
was  looking  particularly  brilliant,  dressed  in  the 
richest  black  satin,  and  wearing  a  magnificent  fermoir 
of  diamonds  and  sapphires,  which  Sanframondi  had 
given  her. 

Emilia  Tromba  was  very  different,  though  she,  too, 
was  as  fair  as  driven  snow.  But  her  magnificent 
waving  hair  was  black  as  a  raven's  wing,  her  glorious 
almond-shaped  eyes  were  black  also,  her  mouth 
exquisite,  her  smile  charming.  Her  nose  was  a  high 
aquiline,  and  spoiled  the  perfect  regularity  of  her  face, 
but  she  was  proud  of  it  because  it  was  aristocratic. 
Her  mother  was  a  vegetable  seller  in  the  market ; 
very  possibly  her  father  might  have  been  a  noble. 
She  was  not  tall,  and  was  rather  plump,  but  her 
arms  and  shoulders  were  marvellously  beautiful,  and 
when  dancing  she  generally  contrived  to  let  her 
splendid  hair  fall  upon  her  shoulders.  At  such 
moments  she  was  incomparably  lovely.  She  was 
now   dressed    in    silver-gray  velvet,   trimmed    with 

5—2 


68  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

chinchilla.  She  wore  a  black  hat  loaded  with  plumes, 
and  blazed  with  diamonds,  earrings,  bracelets,  pins, 
buckles,  etc.  In  spite  of  all  this  splendour  she  con- 
trived to  look  disorderly.  She  had  upset  champagne 
on  the  front  of  her  gown,  and  had  crushed  a  chocolate 
bonbon  with  her  elbow.  Thus  attired,  the  beautiful, 
noisy,  shameless  mistress  of  the  elegant  Ferdinando 
Terzi  approached  poor  Carmela,  shivering  in  her 
thrice-washed  woollen  shawl. 

*  Are  we  very  late,  Minino  ?' 

*  They  are  finishing  the  first  act  of  the  opera, 
Donna  Emilia,'  replied  Carmela,  with  lowered  eyes. 

'  We  have  come  too  soon,  Concetta !'  screamed 
Emilia.  *  We  could  have  stayed  away  much 
longer  !' 

'  Of  course,  what  a  shame !  Shall  we  go  away 
again  ?' 

*  But  no.  With  whom  ?  Where  ?  Ferdinando 
and  Luigi  have  gone  away ;  they  will  only  come  back 
to  take  us  when  the  opera  is  over.  Did  you  come  to 
the  matinee,  Minino  ?'  asked  Emilia. 

*  Yes,  miss.' 

*And  why?  Couldn't  you  take  a  holiday — a 
holiday  with  someone  who  cares  for  you  ?' 

*  I  cannot  take  holidays ;  five  francs  forfeit  would 
ruin  me,'  answered  Carmela,  who  had  become 
mortally  pale  in  spite  of  her  rouge. 

*  But  someone  who  is  fond  of  you — couldn't  he 
pay  the  forfeit  ?' 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  69 

'  Someone  who  loves  me,  Donna  Emilia  ?  Who 
is  there  to  love  me  ?' 

An  accent  of  pain  was  audible  in  her  voice. 

*  Eh,  someone  must  be  fond  of  you.  Do  you  mean 
that  you  have  no  one  ?' 

Carmela  had  little  vanity,  but  she  felt  stung. 

*  Someone,  perhaps,'  she  murmured.  *  Yes,  there 
is — someone.' 

*  Eh  !  Make  up  your  mind,  my  child,'  exclaimed 
the  corruptress  maternally.  '  Do  throw  propriety 
overboard.  What  is  the  use  of  it  ?  Why  are  you  so 
good  ?  For  Jesus  Christ  ?  When  the  time  comes 
you  can  confess  and  repent,  and  die  in  the  odour  of 
sanctity,  as  I  mean  to  do.  Are  you  good  for  what  the 
world  says  of  you  ?  The  world  laughs  at  you  for  it, 
and  if  you  don't  decide  now,  when  will  you  ?  You 
are  not  beautiful.  There  is  no  use  in  telling  lies — you 
know  it  yourself ;  and  if  you  don't  take  a  lover  now, 
you  will  never  get  one.' 

In  spite  of  all  her  efforts  the  large  tears  began  to 
roll  down  Carmela's  cheeks,  her  bosom  heaved  with 
sobs. 

*  Now  what  are  you  crying  for  ?  What  has 
happened  to  you  ?'  screamed  Emilia. 

*  Nothing — nothing !'  stammered  Carmela,  amid 
her  sobs. 

*Take  this — take  this  to  comfort  you  a  little. 
Ferdinando  Terzi,  my  lover,  gave  them  to  me 
to-day  at  Sorrento.'     And,  opening  a  bag  of  sweets, 


70  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

Emilia  poured  a  handful  of  chocolate  fondants  into 
Carmela's  hand,  saying :  *  Eat — eat,  and  don't  think 
of  any  troubles !' 

Carmela  went  slowly  toward  the  dressing-room, 
carefully  carrying  the  bonbons.  She  did  not  eat 
them,  and  more  than  one  tear  fell  upon  them  as  she 
folded  them  carefully  in  a  piece  of  newspaper. 

The  ballet  was  over  at  a  quarter  to  one  o'clock, 
and  the  coryphees  dressed  hastily.  They  were  worn 
out  with  fatigue,  and  wrapped  themselves  up  as 
warmly  as  they  could,  nodding  a  silent  good-night 
to  their  companions,  and  flitting  away  without 
looking  to  right  or  left.  Carmela  descended  the 
stairs  slowly,  half  dead  with  weariness,  with  aching 
limbs,  and  a  chill  dread  of  the  long,  solitary  walk 
from  the  theatre  to  the  Pignasecca.  When  she 
reached  the  hall,  she  saw  that  Concetta  Giura  and 
Emilia  Tromba  were  waiting  in  a  corner  for  their 
lovers,  who  had  not  come  for  them,  Sanframondi 
having  first  to  accompany  the  Duchess,  and  Ferdi- 
nando  Terzi  the  lady  he  loved,  of  whom  Emilia  was 
prudent  enough  never  to  speak.  Both  Concetta  and 
Emilia  looked  rather  tired,  and  Carmela  stopped  for 
a  moment  to  speak  to  them  and  to  Mastracchio,  who 
was  waiting  for  her  father. 

At  this  moment  two  carriages  drove  up,  and  two 
gentlemen,  wrapped  in  long  fur  pelisses,  descended 
from  them  and  entered  the  theatre.  They  were 
Sanframondi  and  Terzi.     The  former  looked  fright- 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  71 

fully  bored;  the  latter  preserved  the  air  of  glacial 
indifference  which  was  habitual  with  him,  and  was 
due  partly  to  his  aristocratic  and  finely-chiselled 
features,  and  partly  to  the  blue,  cold  eyes  and  the 
beautiful  mouth  which  never  smiled.  As  soon  as 
the  gentlemen  appeared,  Concetta  and  Emilia  over- 
whelmed them  with  reproaches  for  having  kept  them 
waiting. 

*  Let  us  go  at  once,  then,'  said  Sanframondi  im- 
patiently, twisting  his  face  to  keep  his  glass  in  his  eye. 

The  couple  drove  away  at  once,  after  making  an 
appointment  for  the  last  day  of  carnival. 

The  others  lingered.  Emilia  was  looking  into  her 
bag  to  see  if  she  had  all  her  jewels,  and  Ferdinando 
Terzi,  impassible,  smoked  a  cigarette. 

*  Minino,  did  you  see  whether  I  wore  my  diamond 
clover-leaves  this  evening  ?'  screamed  Emilia. 

*  No,  Donna  Emilia,  you  did  not,'  replied  Carmela, 
advancing. 

*  Ah,  thanks !  You  have  taken  a  load  off  my  mind. 
This  is  Carmela  Minino,  one  of  my  companions, 
Ferdinando.' 

The  Count  of  Torregrande  scarcely  deigned  to 
glance  at  the  poor  coryphee  who  stood  trembling 
before  him,  a  prey  to  a  strange,  indefinable  anguish. 

*  Listen,  Ferdinando ;'  and  Emilia  whispered 
something  in  his  ear,  laughing  loudly  the  while. 

Carmela  heard  perfectly  the  words :  '  Only  think ! 
she  is  a  modest  maid.' 


72  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

And  Ferdinando  Terzi,  looking  at  her  with  his 
contemptuous,  cutting,  icy  glance,  had  replied  scorn- 
fully:  *  What  a  fool!' 

Carmela  felt  the  earth  sinking  under  her  feet. 
Emilia  took  Terzi's  arm  (for  she  affected  a  great 
familiarity  with  him  in  public)  and  approached  the 
carriage.  Terzi  courteously  opened  the  door  for 
her,  helped  her  in,  and  entered  himself.  The  door 
of  the  coup6  closed  softly,  the  equipage  rolled  away, 
and  the  measured  trot  of  the  thorough-bred  horse 
grew  fainter  in  the  distance.  A  mist  gathered  over 
Carmela's  eyes  as  she  stood  on  the  steps  looking  out 
into  the  black  night,  but  seeing  nothing. 

*  Donna  Carmela!  Donna  Carmela!'  said  a  mas- 
culine voice. 

It  was  Roberto  Gargiulo,  who  had  waited  for  her 
at  the  door  of  San  Carlo,  a  door  famous  in  the 
history  of  Neapolitan  gallantry. 

*  What  do  you  want  ?  What  is  it,  Don  Roberto  ?' 
she  stammered,  breathless,  weak,  oppressed  by  a 
strange,  nameless  pain. 

*  I  wanted  an  answer.     Why  didn't  you  answer  ?' 
*What    should    I    answer?      Good -night,    Don 

Roberto,'  said   Carmela  in  a  choked  voice,  trying 
to  tear  herself  away. 

*  No — no !  at  least  let  me  take  you  home ;  it  is  so 
late,  and  you  are  alone.  I  haven't  the  courage  to 
let  you  go  alone  at  this  hour,'  answered  Roberto 
Gargiulo,  who  seemed,  and  was,  much  moved. 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  73 

'  It  isn't  right — really  it  isn't  right !'  answered 
Carmela,  with  a  last  effort  of  resistance. 

'  You  are  so  tired  !  We'll  take  a  carriage.  Come, 
Donna  Carmela — come  !  you  will  soon  reach  home 
in  a  carriage.     I  will  leave  you  at  the  door.' 

*  Let  us  go,  then,'  said  Carmela,  suddenly  decided. 


Ill 

*  I  WILL  take  you  to  supper  somewhere  this  evening,' 
said  Roberto  Gargiulo,  when  they  had  reached 
Piazza  San  Ferdinando. 

Carmela  stopped  short  for  a  moment,  greatly 
annoyed.  In  point  of  fact,  she  detested  these  late 
suppers,  coming  after  the  fatigue  of  the  ballet,  and 
taken  always  in  some  restaurant  frequented  by  other 
couples  of  more  than  equivocal  respectability.  In- 
deed, the  more  Roberto  Gargiulo  made  public  their 
relation  to  each  other,  the  more  she  suffered  in  the 
depths  of  her  heart  from  a  sense  of  vague  mortifica- 
tion, a  ceaseless  dumb  pain.  Outwardly  she  was 
calm  and  smiling,  but  inwardly  she  suffered  from 
a  thousand  nameless  stabs. 

*  Where  would  you  like  to  go  ?'  she  said,  without 
showing  the  reluctance  she  felt. 

*  Alia  Regina  d'ltalia,'  answered  Roberto,  as  they 
walked  along  the  Corso  Toledo. 

*  We  won't  stay  long,  will  we  ?'  she  returned  in  an 
affectionate  tone. 

*  Why  ?     Are  you  sleepy  ?' 

*  For  your  sake,  too.  Don't  you  have  to  go  early 
to  the  shop  to-morrow  ?' 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  75 

*  Don't  you  remember  that  to-morrow  is  Sunday, 
Lina?' 

*  Ah,  yes !  you  are  right.' 

And  she  sighed.  She  would  have  Hked  to  go  to 
dine  with  Roberto  at  some  little  country  inn  near 
Posilippo,  from  which  she  could  see  the  blue  sea, 
of  which  she  got  a  glimpse  but  rarely,  living  as  she 
did  in  the  very  heart  of  Naples,  and  only  going  out 
to  rehearsals  and  to  the  theatre  on  ballet  nights. 
At  these  places  in  the  country  no  one  knew  Gargiulo 
or  herself;  there  were  no  curious,  no  insolent  glances 
to  dread.  But  after  this  late  supper  there  was  no 
hope  of  a  country  outing  on  Sunday.  Gargiulo  was 
not  sentimental,  and  he  was,  above  all,  desirous  to 
display  himself  at  semi-fashionable  restaurants  with 
his  mistress,  in  fine  company,  or  what  he  called  fine 
company.  He  had  very  little  money  to  spend,  and 
Carmela  regretted  even  what  he  spent.  It  was  a 
good  deal  for  him,  and  to  her  it  seemed  something 
enormous. 

*  Are  you  hungry  ?'  said  Roberto  kindly. 

*Yes,  yes — rather,'  she  answered,  anxious  not  to 
appear  ungrateful. 

*  We  will  have  a  splendid  roast  of  mozzarelle^  Lina, 
at  the  Regina  d' Italia.  They  cook  mozzarelle  to  per- 
fection,' he  continued,  in  the  serious  tone  with  which 
the  Neapolitan  always  speaks  of  culinary  things. 

*  Yes,  it  is  true.  Will  they  have  mozzarelle  this 
evening  ?' 


76  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

*  They  always  do ;  it  is  a  speciality.  Last  evening, 
when  I  left  you,  I  went  there  a  moment  to  see  who 
was  there,  and  Don  Gabriele  Scagnamiglia  had  just 
ordered  a  second  dish  of  mozzarelle,' 

*  Oh !  he  was  there,  was  he  ?' 

'  Certainly.  With  an  actress — a  Frenchwoman. 
He  is  a  regular  old  sinner !' 

*  He  is  rich,  and  a  bachelor,  so '  she  said,  in 

an  indulgent  tone. 

*  He  has  always  courted  you  a  little,  eh  ?'  said 
Roberto,  laughing. 

*0h,'  she  answered,  blushing  through  her  rouge, 
*  as  he  does  everyone.' 

*  But  you  didn't  yield,  like  the  others  ?' 

*  No,  no,'  she  answered  quickly.  *  I  swear  it  to 
you,'  she  added,  looking  at  him  humbly. 

*  It  isn't  necessary  to  swear.  I  believe  you.  I 
know  you  are  a  good  girl.  If  it  were  not  so,  I 
shouldn't  care  for  you,'  he  concluded  thoughtfully. 

She  looked  up  at  the  sky  as  they  walked  on  silently 
towards  the  restaurant.  It  was  a  starry  April  night 
and  very  mild,  a  good  many  people  were  walking  in 
the  streets.  San  Carlo  had  been  open  unusually  late 
that  spring,  and  would  be  open  but  for  a  very  few 
days  more.  Carmela  Minino  would  soon  have  her 
vacation,  a  vacation  which  she  at  once  desired  and 
dreaded,  for  though  repose  was  pleasant,  it  meant 
the  cessation  of  her  salary  of  three  francs  and  a  half 
a  day.     There  was  some  talk  of  a  summer  ballet  in 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  77 

June,  July,  and  August  at  the  Varieta,  but  she  had  as 
yet  had  no  engagement. 

*  It  is  hot  to-night,'  said  Roberto,  as  they  entered 
the  restaurant. 

*  Very  hot,'  she  replied. 

Their  conversation,  even  in  the  tenderest  moments, 
was  not  more  interesting  than  this.  Roberto  Gar- 
giulo  had  a  certain  amount  of  gaiety,  a  certain  imita- 
tion of  wit,  but  he  only  showed  it  among  his  boon 
companions  at  the  caf6  or  in  the  theatre,  or  some 
place  of  nightly  revel.  With  Carmela  Minino  he 
showed— in  spite  of  himself — what  he  really  was,  a 
placid  bourgeois,  rather  slow  of  intellect,  all  the 
more  because  the  girl  herself  was  quiet  and  sensible, 
and  incapable  of  making  an  indecent  speech.  This 
at  once  pleased  and  annoyed  Gargiulo ;  privately  he 
rejoiced  that  Carmela  was  so  simple  and  good  a 
creature,  but  these  very  qualities  rendered  it  im- 
possible for  him  to  show  off  his  mistress  in  public, 
and  in  public  he  would  have  liked  to  see  her  bold, 
and  free  and  easy.  He  was  extremely  proud  of 
having  been  her  first  lover,  but  he  would  fain  have 
taught  her  the  manner  adopted  by  ballet-girls  in 
public  when  they  accompanied  their  lovers  to  any 
place  of  amusement.  Instead  of  this,  the  presence  of 
any  third  person  reduced  Carmela  to  silence  ;  she 
could  only  smile  very  sweetly  and  courteously. 
Fortunately,  she  had  a  pretty  smile. 

The  restaurant  or  trattoria  of  the  Regina  d' Italia 


78  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

is  high  up  in  the  Corso  Toledo,  where  it  occupies  the 
whole  of  a  rather  lofty  first  floor,  but  the  door  is  a 
small  one  in  the  Vicolo  Speranzella.  It  is  a  ivai- 
toria  almost  of  the  third  order,  much  frequented  by 
students,  clerks,  and  commercial  travellers.  Break- 
fast— that  is,  lunch — costs  a  franc  and  a  half,  and 
dinner  two  francs ;  but  for  that  price  one  can  dine 
abundantly  and  relatively  well,  the  above-mentioned 
class  of  gentlemen  being  fond  of  their  food,  and  keen 
about  having  it  of  the  best  quality  possible  for  the 
price.  The  Regina  d'ltalia  therefore  holds  its  own 
successfully,  while  other  restaurants  of  the  same 
class  fail  altogether.  Part  of  this  success  is  owmg 
to  the  fact,  not  common  in  Naples,  that  it  is  kept 
open  far  into  the  night,  and  thus  is  a  rendezvous  for 
gamblers,  reporters,  police  agents,  detectives,  and  all 
the  other  birds  of  night  who  are  able  to  put  on 
evening  dress  and  white  gloves,  and  feign  a  certain 
imitation  of  high  life.  Sometimes,  very  late,  a  gentle- 
man may  be  seen  there  with  an  elegantly-dressed 
companion,  perhaps  with  the  desire  to  do  something 
out  of  the  way,  perhaps  because  no  other  restaurant 
is  open  so  late. 

Carmela  and  Roberto  went  up  the  marble  stair- 
case with  its  strip  of  warm  cocco  in  the  middle.  It 
was  passably  clean,  but  only  passably.  As  they 
entered  the  room  above  a  tall  man  accosted  them  : 

*  Oysters  !  oysters !     Fresh  oysters  !' 

*  Would  you   like   a  dozen   oysters,   Lina  ?'  said 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  79 

Roberto  magnificently,  with  the  air  of  a  rich 
viveuY, 

*No,  no,'  she  answered  quickly,  passing  on  at 
once. 

In  the  entrance-room,  which  also  opened  into  the 
kitchen,  the  victuals  were  exposed  to  view  on  a  long 
marble  counter  —  cutlets,  fowls  trussed  ready  for 
roasting,  various  kinds  of  fish,  a  large  ham,  sausages, 
mozzarelle,  and  a  large  Roman  tart  glistening  with 
sugar,  and  dripping  with  vanilla  cream.  All  this 
formed  a  very  appetizing  display,  but  Carmela  passed 
on  quickly  with  lowered  eyes. 

*  Did  you  see,  Linuccia  ?  There  were  certain  big 
triglia — real  loves  !  We  will  order  them  cooked  with 
tomato-sauce,  eh  ?' 

*  They  will  be  dear,'  she  ventured  to  say. 

'  That  does  not  matter  to  you,'  he  answered 
instantly,  and  a  little  contemptuously.  *  This  even- 
ing we  will  have  a  feast.' 

They  passed  on  quickly  through  the  various  rooms, 
all  alike  ornamented  with  white  stucco,  and  furnished 
with  narrow  divans  of  red  reps  placed  against  the 
wall  behind  the  tables.  Gargiulo  looked  about  to 
see  if  any  acquaintances  were  there  to  admire  him. 
He  was,  for  an  eye  unaccustomed  to  a  near  view  of 
the  real  thing,  a  fair  imitation  of  a  gentleman,  with 
his  white  waistcoat,  gold  watchchain,  and  the  silver 
chain  which  held  his  keys  and  pencil  hanging  at  his 
side.     Several  of  the  rooms  were  empty,  but  in  the 


8o  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

last  but  one  was  Rosine  Musto  with  her  protector. 
She  nodded  affectionately  to  Carmela  as  she  passed. 

*  She  is  always  with  Sambrini,'  murmtired  Gargiulo. 
'  They  say — they  say  that  they  have  been  married 

in  church,'  answered  Carmela. 

*  Oh !'  he  answered,  in  the  coldest  tone. 

They  were  now  in  the  last  room,  which  has  two 
balconies  on  Toledo.  Roberto  looked  about  for  a 
table,  and  decided  upon  one  in  the  corner,  between 
the  window  and  the  balcony.  While  they  prepared 
to  sit  down,  Carmela  took  off  her  jacket,  and 
appeared  in  a  gown  of  lilac  cashmere,  with  lilac 
velvet  at  the  throat  and  wrists,  a  gift  from  Gargiulo 
— cashmere,  trimming  and  lining  all  complete,  she 
having  only  paid  for  the  making,  as  she  never 
accepted  a  penny  from  him.  The  twelve  francs  lay 
heavily  upon  her  conscience,  but  she  had  said 
nothing,  he  was  so  kind  and  generous. 

*  Why  haven't  you  put  on  your  new  hat  ?'  he  said, 
examining  her  attentively. 

'  One  spoils  everything  in  that  theatre,'  she  re- 
plied vaguely. 

*  Here  we  are  not  in  the  theatre,'  observed  her 
lover. 

*  I  didn't  know — didn't  know  we  were  coming 
here.' 

She  was  very  much  changed  in  appearance. 
Formerly  she  had  carefully  rubbed  off  rouge  and 
cold  cream  before  leaving  the  theatre ;  now  she  made 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  8l 

up  her  face  carefully,  because  Roberto  wished  it, 
her  eyes  were  outlined  with  kohl,  and  her  lips 
touched  with  carmine.  He  took  a  perverse  pleasure 
in  making  her  paint  and  enamel  her  face,  and 
brought  her  himself  all  the  cosmetics  and  unguents 
and  powders  used  for  the  purpose.  She  had  a  pair 
of  wearable  gloves,  a  gold  chain  with  a  cross  round 
her  neck,  and  a  pair  of  earrings  of  false  brilliants — a 
very  good  imitation — in  her  ears.  Roberto  had  given 
her  everything,  from  the  gloves  to  the  earrings. 
The  things  were  all  imitations ;  the  gloves,  much 
shop-worn,  cost  a  franc  and  a  half,  the  gilt  chain  and 
cross  from  five  to  six,  the  earrings  fifteen,  but  he 
was  as  proud  of  this  as  if  he  had  accompanied  a 
woman  loaded  with  diamonds.  And  now,  as  she 
sat  under  the  flaring  gaslight,  Carmela  had  quite 
a  new  aspect :  strangely  embellished,  a  good  deal 
made  up,  only  her  superb  hair  and  large  dark  eyes 
unchanged,  as  was  her  gentle  smile.  Her  hands,  in 
spite  of  glycerine,  were  thin  and  brown,  and  bore 
traces  of  the  work  they  had  done  for  years.  Roberto 
had  entreated  her  never  to  take  her  gloves  off, 
especially  as  he  had  not  been  able  to  give  her  any 
rings. 

They  had  hardly  sat  down  before  another  couple 
entered — a  young  man  who  was  by  birth  a  member 
of  the  aristocracy  of  Naples,  but  who  had  utterly  gone 
to  the  devil,  having  devoured  his  fortune  with  cards 
and  women,  and  who  had  received  the  final  blow  at 

6 


82  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

the  hands  of  a  certain  Lodoiska,  a  Russian  singer 
born  in  Genoa.  Now  he  Hved  with  Lodoiska,  at  her 
expense  ;  it  was  said  that  he  intended  to  marry  her. 
His  distant  relations — he  had  no  near  ones — moved 
heaven  and  earth  in  order  to  get  him  out  of  Naples, 
he  had  fallen  so  low,  and  they  were  so  thoroughly 
ashamed  of  him.  He  was  a  small,  slight,  well-made 
fellow,  with  a  handsome  regular  face,  Arab  in 
contour,  and  with  jet-black  eyes  and  hair  and 
moustache.  Lodoiska  was  tall  and  graceful,  fair 
and  blond,  with  large  blue  eyes,  one  of  which  un- 
fortunately looked  in  the  wrong  direction.  She  was 
dressed  in  crimson,  with  a  white  hat  loaded  with  white 
plumes  on  her  head,  and  magnificent  diamond  ear- 
rings in  her  ears — earrings  which  must  have  cost  at 
least  three  thousand  francs.  Massamormile  bowed 
to  Roberto,  and  Roberto  blushed  with  pleasure ;  he 
was  so  vain  of  a  bow  from  a  noble,  even  a  noble  as 
lost  and  degraded  as  Placido  Massamormile. 

Carmela  and  Roberto  ate  in  silence.  Lodoiska 
scolded  Placido  in  a  loud  harsh  voice.  She  put  up 
with  him,  partly  from  habit,  partly  because  she  had 
no  one  else  in  view,  partly,  perhaps,  because  she 
was  still  fond  of  him ;  but  they  quarrelled  con- 
tinually, irritated  by  their  position  towards  each 
other,  but  not  able  to  free  themselves.  Placido 
despised  everything,  beginning  with  himself,  and 
Lodoiska  enjoyed  everything  in  a  conscienceless, 
vulgar  fashion.    It  was  quite  evident  that  he  suffered, 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  83 

though  his  handsome  Arab  mask  of  a  face  was  ex- 
pressionless ;  still,  it  was  clear  that  these  scenes 
pained  him,  and  equally  clear  that  the  noisy 
Lodoiska  enjoyed  life  in  her  loud  way.  Roberto 
Gargiulo  envied  Placido.  What  was  that  quiet,  silent 
sheep  of  a  Carmela  Minino  compared  to  the  brilliant 
cafe-singer,  who  possessed  a  fortune  of  three  hundred 
thousand  francs,  which  she  had  not  earned  on  the 
stage,  and  who  perhaps  would  succeed  in  marrying 
a  noble  ?  The  poorness,  the  insignificance  of  his 
conquest  humiliated  Roberto  Gargiulo  every  now 
and  then,  and  at  such  moments  his  glances  at 
Carmela  were  indifferent,  and  even  a  little  bitter. 
Did  she  understand  this  ?  Perhaps.  Ever  since 
Lodoiska's  entrance  she  had  sat  with  bowed  head, 
looking  steadfastly  at  her  plate,  and  mechanically 
rolling  pellets  of  bread,  and  had  thereby  succeeded 
in  violently  irritating  her  lover,  who  would  have 
liked  to  see  her  gay,  sparkling,  and  daring. 

*  What  is  the  matter  ?  What  has  happened  to 
you  ?'  he  said,  in  a  hard  voice. 

*  Nothing — nothing,'  she  answered,  looking  up, 
startled. 

*  You  are  a  funereal  guest,'  he  answered  rudely, 
still  more  annoyed  to  see  that  her  eyes  were  full  of 
tears.  '  It  would  have  been  better  if  I  had  taken 
you  straight  home.' 

*  I — I  did  not  want  to  come,'  she  stammered, 
strangling  a  sob. 

6—2 


84  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

*  I'll  think  better  of  it  before  I  ask  you  another 
time,'  he  answered  dryly,  beginning  to  divide  the 
tYiglia. 

They  were  silent ;  Carmela  blinked  away  her  tears, 
composed  herself,  and  pretended  to  eat.  Several 
people  entered,  among  others.  Carlo  Altamura,  a 
money-lender,  who  would  lend  money  for  a  few  days 
or  a  few  hours,  and  who  usually  haunted  gambling- 
houses,  where  he  had  already  ruined  more  than 
one  unfortunate  player.  With  him  came  Gaetano 
d'Amara,  a  huge,  fat  reporter,  who  was  obliged  to 
sit  up  all  night,  and  who  had  come  in  to  supper 
between  one  report  and  another.  They  were  followed 
by  Don  Gabriele  Scagnamiglio,  the  rich,  popular, 
and  gallant  druggist  of  the  Via  Pignasecca.  He,  for 
a  wonder,  came  alone.  It  was  not  often  that  Don 
Gabriele  took  supper  alone.  With  his  well-trimmed, 
carefully  -  perfumed  white  beard,  his  red  cheeks, 
mischievous  glances,  and  elegant  attire,  all  complete, 
from  the  flower  in  his  buttonhole  to  the  handsome 
cane  he  carried  in  his  hand,  Don  Gabriele  was  still 
a  handsome  man,  despite  the  fact  that  he  had  long 
passed  fifty-five  years,  and  he  enjoyed  an  immense 
and  incontestable  popularity  with  women  of  all  ages — 
actresses,  ballet-dancers,  singers,  whoever,  in  short, 
was  of  doubtful  reputation.  As  soon  as  he  entered 
he  nodded  affectionately  to  Roberto  and  Carmela, 
with  an  air  of  extreme  benignity,  as  if  he  were 
bestowing   a   benediction.      And  when,   a    moment 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  85 

later,  Gaetano  d'Amara  called  Roberto  to  go  out 
on  the  balcony  in  order  to  speak  a  word  to  him 
apart,  Don  Gabriele  came  and  sat  down  by  Carmela. 

*  Oh,  Donna  Carmelina,  you  are  growing  more  and 
more  beautiful !'  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  with  a  smile. 

*  Your  eyes  are  beautiful,'  replied  Carmela,  giving 
the  usual  Neapolitan  reply  to  a  compliment. 

*  Oh,  I  am  old — old.  Donna  Carmelina.  No  one 
wants  to  have  anything  to  do  with  me.' 

'  Don't  say  that — it  is  not  true,  cavaliere.' 
'  And   have   you   smiled   on  me  ?     Have  you  not 
always  said  no  ?     And  instead,  like  everyone  else, 
you  have  preferred  a  young  man.' 

He  kept  an  eye  on  the  balcony  while  he  talked  on 
in  a  low  voice,  with  a  pleasant  smile.  She  looked  at 
him,  reddening  and  growing  pale  by  turns,  because 
she  was  rather  shy  of  this  rich,  generous,  elegant 
old  man,  who  had  had,  she  knew,  endless  adventures. 

*  What  do  you  find  in  that  young  man  ?  Do  you 
love  him  ?  Are  you  really  in  love  ? — much,  very 
much  in  love  ?'  said  Don  Gabriele,  growing  more 
and  more  aggressive. 

'  Oh  !'  she  exclaimed,  much  agitated. 

*  He  gives  you  a  good  deal  of  money,  perhaps  ? 
And  who  knows  where  he  gets  it  ?' 

'Not  money — no  money — never  money!'  she 
answered  quickly,  with  a  note  of  anger  and  pride 
in  her  voice. 

*  Don't  be  offended.     Pardon  me,  Donna  Carme- 


86  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

lina.  Then  he  makes  you  die  of  hunger  ?  Or  it  is 
for  love  of  his  beautiful  eyes  ?  Some  miserable  little 
present  he  gives  every  now  and  then  ?  I  understand 
it  all,  and  I  know  that  you  have  to  spend  your  own 
money,  too.' 

She  trembled  with  mortification,  because  all  that 
Don  Gabriele  said  was  cruel,  but  absolutely  true — 
because  it  seemed  a  crime  not  to  defend  Roberto, 
and  brutal  to  allow  this  gay,  unrepentant  old  sinner 
to  speak  as  he  did.  Everything  was  so  true  and  so 
painful  that  she  leant  back  in  her  chair,  feeHng  faint 
and  ill. 

*  Don't  be  so  unhappy,  Donna  Carmelina.  I  don't 
like  to  see  you  so  sad,'  added  the  druggist.  *  But  I 
speak  to  you  like  the  true  friend  I  am,  because  I  have 
known  you  from  childhood,  and  know  you  to  be  a 
good  girl ' 

She  shot  an  imploring  glance  at  him.  Don 
Gabriele  feigned  not  to  see  it,  and  proceeded : 

*  I  tell  you  plainly :  some  day  Roberto  Gargiulo 
will  leave  you.     Perhaps  the  day  is  not  far  distant.' 

*  Perhaps  the  day  is  not  far  distant,'  she  repeated 
mechanically,  as  if  the  phrase  expressed  her  own 
intimate  conviction. 

*  And  what  will  you  do  then  ?  Who  will  you 
find  ?     Upon  whom  will  you  call,  Donna  Carmela  ?' 

*Who  shall  I  call?  Who  can  I  find?'  she 
answered  vaguely. 

*  You  will  find  your  old  friend  Gabriele,  who  is  not 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  87 

twenty-eight  years  old,  with  an  imperial  and  curling 
moustaches,  but  who  is  a  reliable  person,  Donna 
Carmelina.  Call  Don  Gabriele,  and  Don  Gabriele 
will  answer,  with  a  military  salute,  "  Present !"  ' 

And  he  rounded  off  his  discourse  with  a  gay  laugh, 
because  Roberto  Gargiulo  was  approaching.  And 
seeing  that  Carmela  was  flushed  and  evidently 
agitated,  Don  Gabriele  launched  forth  into  con- 
versation with  many  smiles. 

'  Dear,  dear  Gargiulo,  as  you  were  rude  enough 
to  leave  this  lovely  lady  alone,  I,  like  a  faithful 
cavalier,  have  kept  her  company.' 

*And  you  have  been  making  love  to  her?'  said 
Roberto  gaily,  beginning  his  supper. 

*  Certainly ;  I  always  make  love  to  her — this 
evening  more  than  ever.' 

*  And  with  what  result,  cavaliere  ?' 

*  I  confess,  to  my  shame,  with  no  result  at  all,' 
said  the  old  sinner,  giggling. 

'You  mortify  me,  cavaliere,'  murmured  Carmela, 
who  was  now  calm  again,  but  still  embarrassed. 

*  Take  good  care  of  this  little  woman,  Gargiulo ; 
she  loves  you ;  she  adores  you ;  she  is  a  monster 
of  fidelity.  I  am  an  old  rascal,  but  she  is  an 
angel!' 

Notwithstanding  the  slight  tone  of  irony  in  these 
words,  and  their  manifest  exaggeration,  Roberto 
Gargiulo  was  pleased.  When  Don  Gabriele  had 
gone  to  another  table,  quite  satisfied  at  having  said 


88  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

to  Carmela  what  he  wished  and   intended  to  say, 
Roberto  stretched  out  his  hand  and  patted  hers. 

*  I  beg  your  pardon  if  I  was  rude  just  now.' 

*  It  doesn't  matter — it  doesn't  matter!'  she  said, 
again  much  moved. 

When  she  climbed  the  stairs  to  her  fourth  floor 
that  night,  Carmela  panted  with  fatigue  and  nervous- 
ness. When  he  left  her  at  the  street-door,  Gargiulo 
had  asked  her,  as  he  always  did,  to  let  him  come  up 
with  her  for  half  an  hour.  And  she  had  refused, 
obstinately,  as  she  always  did.  She  would  not 
allow  him  to  visit  her  at  her  lodgings.  Since  she 
had  given  herself  to  him,  and  everyone,  alas !  had 
known  it,  she  had  been  ashamed  to  look  her  neigh- 
bours in  the  face.  She  blushed  as  she  passed  them, 
from  the  fruit-seller,  a  cross  creature,  who  now 
frowned  when  she  saw  Carmela,  and  murmured 
insulting  words,  to  the  coal-seller,  who  shook  her 
head  mournfully  at  her  and  sighed,  while  Don  Santo, 
the  baker,  groaned,  *  What  are  we — what  are  we, 
poor  creatures  ?'  as  he  cut  off  her  portion  of  bread. 
As  for  the  young  wine-seller,  he  no  longer  bowed  to 
her,  and  even  Gaetanella  the  hairdresser,  who  now 
dressed  her  hair  every  day,  came  with  pursed-up 
lips  and  a  distant,  prudent  manner,  while  she  made 
cautious  allusions  to  the  young  men  who  ruined 
themselves  in  theatres  and  music-halls.  Finally, 
the  porter  looked  at  her  insolently  and  meaningly 
every  time  she  went  out  at  unusual  hours. 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  89 

No !  never  would  she  receive  GargiulcJ  in  the 
house  where  she  lived.  She  felt  ashamed  in  the 
presence  of  the  inanimate  objects  in  her  room — 
the  Madonna  suspended  at  the  head  of  her  bed, 
the  relics  of  Sant'  Antonio,  of  everything  which 
reminded  her  of  the  time  when  she  was  pure  and 
chaste.  She  never  spoke  of  this  to  Roberto,  for 
fear  of  being  laughed  at,  but  she  was  obstinate  in 
her  resolve  of  not  receiving  him  in  the  house.  She 
kept  her  room  clean,  but  she  knew  that  he  would 
despise  its  poverty ;  she  blushed  at  the  very  idea  of 
his  seeing  it.  That  evening,  too,  Roberto  had  been 
persistent ;  he  was  tired  of  going  to  meet  her  at  a 
third-class  hotel  in  another  quarter  of  the  town  ; 
tired,  too,  of  paying  for  such  meetings — for  the 
poorest  hotels  are  more  or  less  expensive — while  if 
she  had  received  him  in  the  house  where  she  lived 
an  occasional  gift  of  fifty  centimes  to  the  porter 
would  have  arranged  everything.  But  she  had 
refused  obstinately,  with  the  donkey-like  obstinacy 
of  the  timid.  Then  he  had  offered  to  engage  a 
furnished  room  for  her  in  another  quarter  of  the 
town.  This  also  she  refused,  and,  indeed,  it  would 
have  been  very  awkward  for  him  had  she  consented, 
as  he  could  not  have  paid  the  rent.  Forty  or  fifty 
francs  a  month,  a  charwoman  to  pay,  the  porter, 
a  thousand  other  small  expenses !  No,  indeed ;  he 
would  have  been  sorely  upset  had  his  offer  been 
accepted,  because  the  bond  between   Carmela  and 


90  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

himself  would  have  been  stronger  than  ever  had 
she  entered  upon  a  new  mode  of  life  in  order  to 
please  him.  In  fact,  he  had  only  made  the  proposi- 
tion from  a  desire  to  show  off,  and  was  enchanted 
not  to  be  taken  at  his  word.  She  had  refused, 
prompted  by  the  sentiment  of  economy  which  was 
the  result  of  her  poverty,  and  also  by  the  horror 
of  change  peculiar  to  all  simple  creatures  who  love 
their  poor  houses  and  poor,  humble  ways.  Never- 
theless, Gargiulo  had  gone  away  angry.  He  was 
convinced  that  Carmela  adored  him,  and,  knowing 
her  to  be  obedient  to  his  lightest  wish,  certain  (as  he 
thought)  that  she  was  under  the  fascination  of  his 
love  and  generosity,  was  he  not  always  making  her 
little  presents  ? — he  was  indignant  that  she  dared  to 
rebel. 

*  So  you  are  ashamed  of  what  you  have  done  ? 
Then  why  did  you  do  it  ?'  he  said  sharply. 

*  Because — because '  she  answered,  shaking  her 

head  mysteriously. 

Arrived  at  last  at  her  own  door,  and  having  opened 
it,  she  sank  into  the  first  chair  she  found,  and  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands.  She  knew  that  Roberto 
Gargiulo  would  have  forgotten  their  quarrel  when  he 
woke  the  next  morning.  But,  alone  in  the  darkness, 
she  felt  so  lost,  wretched,  and  despairing  that  she 
exclaimed  aloud,  as  if  addressing  a  third  person  : 

*  But  what  is  the  matter  with  me  ?  What  has 
happened  to  me  ?' 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  91 

Ah  !  thinking  over  the  past,  alone  in  the  deep 
silence  and  darkness  of  the  night,  she  saw  plainly 
what  had  happened  to  her.  She  had  committed  her 
first  error,  and  that  the  great  one,  which  no  woman 
is  ever  able  to  repair,  which  God  alone  can  pardon ; 
and  she  had  committed  it,  influenced  neither  by 
passion,  nor  by  love,  nor  by  vanity,  nor  by  interest, 
but  solely  because  she  was  a  weak  creature,  without 
force  of  will,  incapable  of  resistance,  incapable  of 
initiative.  She  had  offended  God  and  the  Madonna ; 
she  had  wounded  the  soul  of  her  dear  mother,  who 
was  now  perhaps  in  purgatory ;  she  was  lost  in  the 
opinion  of  all  honest  people  ;  she  could  no  longer  go 
to  Confession  and  Communion  unless  she  repented, 
and  abandoned  her  present  way  of  life.  She  was 
bound — or  felt  herself  to  be  so — to  Roberto  Gargiulo 
by  gratitude  for  his  regard  for  her,  for  his  kindness, 
for  his  gifts,  and  she  would  wilHngly  have  made  any 
sacrifice  to  show  him  that  she  was  grateful,  but  she 
knew  that  she  did  not  love,  and  had  never  loved 
him. 

*  Why  did  I  do  it,  then  ?  Why  did  I  do  it  ?' 
And  as  the  night  deepened  and  the  cold  chilled 
her  to  the  bone,  she  repeated  the  question  which  she 
had  asked  herself  in  the  winter  nights  as  she  lay 
shivering  under  her  threadbare  coverlets,  the  question 
so  often  asked  by  Roberto  when  they  quarrelled,  and 
no  response  came  from  the  inmost  recesses  of  her 
soul,  where,  nevertheless,  something  profound  moved 


92  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

and  lived.  And  as  she  had  repented  her  sin  as  soon 
as  she  had  committed  it,  so  she  repented  again,  and 
bitterly,  as  the  dreary  night  crept  on,  and  as  she 
lived  over  again  the  humiliation  of  that  supper, 
Roberto's  reproaches  and  the  terrible  advice  given 
by  Don  Gabriele— advice  which  revealed  clearly 
enough  the  depth  of  her  error,  and  the  sad  future 
which  awaited  her. 

Perhaps  Roberto  Gargiulo  was  really  in  love  with 
her  ?  No.  Was  not  she  plain  in  spite  of  her  youth, 
and  her  beautiful  dark  hair  and  eyes  ?  And  was  not 
Gargiulo  a  handsome  youth,  who  had  had  other 
mistresses — so  he  said — a  hundred  thousand  times 
better-looking  than  she  was  ?  What  could  he  find 
in  her  ?  He  forced  her  to  rouge,  to  blacken  her  eyes, 
to  paint  her  lips,  to  load  herself  with  false  jewels, 
to  rub  her  hands  with  pate  d'amandes,  just  because 
he  found  her  rustic,  common,  ugly,  servile.  Did 
Gargiulo  love  her  ?  But  no — but  no  !  She  was  not 
the  kind  of  woman  men  love,  the  good  fortune  of 
inspiring  a  deep,  sincere  affection,  a  great  passion, 
was  not  reserved  for  her,  but  for  the  prima  donnas 
of  the  ballet,  who  were  always  fair  and  fresh,  and 
elegantly  dressed  with  shining  tights  of  finest  rose- 
coloured  silk  and  crisp  tulle  petticoats,  with  white 
hands  laden  with  jewels.  She  was  only  a  poor 
dancer  in  the  third  row,  with  barely  rags  to  cover 
her.     Gargiulo  in  love  with  her  ?     Never  ! 

*  Why  have  I  done  this,  then  ?     Why — why  ?' 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  93 

She  repented  bitterly.  The  physical  joys  of  love 
had  never  appealed  to  her  temperament,  which  was 
naturally  and  essentially  chaste ;  she  submitted,  but 
did  so  with  difficulty,  and  sometimes  with  invincible 
repugnance.  She  was  sentimental,  with  the  mild 
sentimentality  of  the  south  ;  she  would  have  liked 
Gargiulo  to  write  her  long  letters,  to  copy  poetry  for 
her,  to  give  her  flowers,  to  be  gentle,  respectful, 
perhaps  a  little  distant,  and  he,  having  taken  a 
ballet-girl  for  his  mistress,  thought  all  this  regard 
and  attention  the  proper  thing  for  a  fiancee,  for 
respectable  young  women  in  general,  but  absurd  and 
out  of  place  where  Carmela  was  concerned,  and  he 
was  superior,  cynical,  and  slightly  contemptuous 
with  her.  He  made  her  presents  :  a  quantity  of 
things  which  she  had  never  had,  and  of  which  she 
had  felt  the  want,  and  he  bestowed  them  with  the 
benign  and  gracious  air  of  a  generous  person.  She 
now  had  handkerchiefs  of  false  batiste,  stockings  of 
half  silk,  an  under-petticoat  of  surah,  bought  second- 
hand, several  false  jewels,  and  he  had  given  her  the 
lilac  gown  for  Easter,  and  promised  a  silk  one — black 
and  white  stripes — for  the  summer.  He  spent  money 
for  little  suppers  after  the  ballet,  for  little  lunches, 
for  carriages ;  she  had  cost  him  perhaps  three  or  four 
hundred  francs  already  in  the  two  months  they  had 
been  together.  But  was  not  Carmela  herself  forced 
to  spend  a  great  deal  of  money  because  of  her 
relation  with  Roberto  ?     She  no  longer  cooked  her 


94  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

own  food,  because  he  said  that  it  ruined  her  hands. 
She  had  now  a  charwoman  to  whom  she  paid  eight 
francs  a  month.  Had  she  not  been  obHged  to  buy 
a  pair  of  low  shoes,  a  new  corset,  a  jacket  which  a 
tailor  had  made  for  her,  and  which  she  had  paid  for 
at  the  rate  of  two  francs  a  week  ? 

On  the  fifteenth  of  May,  which  was  Roberto's 
birthday,  she  would  be  forced  to  spend  at  least  thirty 
francs  on  a  silver  cigar-case,  he  was  so  fond  of  chic. 
Her  finances  were  terribly  out  of  order.  Usually  in 
the  winter  season  she  saved  some  money,  and  this, 
with  what  she  earned  for  summer  engagements, 
helped  her  to  live.  But  now,  in  two  months  she 
had  not  been  able  to  put  aside  a  single  penny.  She 
had  spent  everything  in  order  to  cut  a  figure  with 
Roberto,  and  she  had  some  debts  which  made  her 
tremble  with  fear  and  worry.  All  her  habits  were 
changed:  she  did  not  sleep  enough,  she  ate  food 
which  disagreed  with  her  at  unaccustomed  hours, 
she  was  always  in  a  tremendous  hurry  and  distressed 
by  being  so.  She  no  longer  went,  when  she  had  a 
free  afternoon,  to  vespers  in  the  parish  church  of 
the  Pellegrini ;  she  had  changed  the  church  of  Santo 
Spirito,  in  which  she  had  been  in  the  habit  of  hear- 
ing Mass,  for  the  Madonna  delle  Grazie,  where  no 
one  knew  her.  She  no  longer  wore  the  scapulary  of 
the  Virgine  del  Carmine,  her  patroness,  invoked  in 
all  moments  of  pain  and  trouble  ;  she  had  laid  aside 
the  cord  of  the  Third  Order  of  St.  Francis,  because 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  95 

she  felt  unworthy  to  wear  it.  She  Hved  in  a  state 
of  sin.  On  Easter  Day  she  would  not  be  able  to 
receive  the  Holy  Communion.  God  is  merciful,  God 
pardons,  but  to  be  forgiven  one  must  not  live  in  sin — 
and  she  was  living  in  sin. 

*  Why  have  I  done  it,  then  ?  Why — why  ?' 
When  she  thought  of  the  future  she  trembled  with 
fright  and  disgust.  How  long  would  her  relation 
with  Gargiulo  last  ?  She  knew  perfectly  that  he 
was  not  bound  to  her  by  love  of  any  kind.  He  was 
vain  of  having  seduced  a  girl  who  had  before  been 
perfectly  honest,  and  he  liked  to  go  to  the  theatre  in 
the  evening  and  salute  her  with  considerable  ostenta- 
tion when  the  figure  of  the  ballet  brought  her  near 
the  footlights.  He  was  amiable,  but  not  tender; 
gallant,  but  not  affectionate;  sufficiently  generous, 
but  in  a  way  which  served  himself,  making  gifts 
which  showed  off  and  enabled  him  to  cut  a  fine 
figure  as  an  open-handed  person ;  but  he  never  gave 
Carmela  anything  really  comfortable  or  useful,  as  a 
real  lover  might  have  done.  In  fact,  Roberto  Gar- 
giulo had  moods  which  of  late  had  made  Carmela 
very  anxious,  though  she  was  too  timid  to  ask  what 
ailed  him  when  he  was  gloomy  and  troubled.  Very 
often  he  was  thoughtful  and  preoccupied ;  at  other 
times  he  inveighed  furiously  against  his  destiny,  the 
poverty  of  his  condition,  when  he  was  born  with 
*  princely  instincts  '  and  refined  tastes.  He  spoke  of 
rich  people  in  general,  and  especially  of  his  principal, 


96  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

who  was  already  a  millionaire,  with  spite  and  hatred. 
Often,  too,  he  mentioned  the  sums  of  money  which, 
as  cashier,  passed  through  his  hands,  in  a  strange 
tone  which  frightened  Carmela,  as  much  as  did  the 
silence  which  followed.  She  knew  that  in  the 
English  shop  they  were  both  kind  and  considerate, 
treating  their  clerks  well,  paying  them  regularly  and 
largely,  giving  invariably  extra  pay  for  extra  work, 
and  handsome  presents  when  affairs  were  in  a 
brilliant  condition,  but  she  also  knew  that  in  return 
for  all  this  they  required  intelligence,  zeal,  energy, 
integrity,  correct  behaviour,  and  good  habits. 
Roberto  had  never  told  her  what  was  really  the 
fact,  that  he  had  more  than  once  been  severely  called 
to  account  by  his  superiors,  but  Carmela  had  divined 
it  from  some  phrases  he  let  fall  at  hazard.  When 
reprimanded  Roberto  always  promised  to  change  his 
mode  of  life,  and  for  two  or  three  months  he  did  so, 
in  appearance,  at  least,  and  in  the  sense  that  he 
went  rarely  to  the  theatre,  or  to  restaurants  and 
caf6s  at  a  late  hour,  and  that  he  never  showed 
himself  in  public  in  the  company  of  light  women; 
but  for  the  last  three  months  he  had  been  seen 
everywhere  in  Carmela's  company,  giving  himself 
the  air,  as  far  as  he  could,  of  a  fast  man  of  the 
world,  and  setting  at  naught  the  rules  of  the  English 
shop  and  its  rigid  principal.  Yet  he  was  often  silent 
and  preoccupied.  Perhaps  he  spent  too  much  ?  He 
had  saved  some  money,  but  he  must  have  spent  it 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  97 

all.  And  what  was  he  spending  now  ?  On  certain 
days  he  was  absolutely  miserly :  he  would  not  take 
a  carriage  even  for  half  a  course ;  he  would  not  enter 
a  caf^  with  Carmela,  but  would  offer  her  a  glass 
of  syrup  and  water,  price  one  penny.  Perhaps  he 
was  already  in  debt  ?  And  as  she  thought  of  all 
these  things,  which  she  noticed  every  day,  as  she 
realized  that  her  error  weighed  as  heavily  upon 
Gargiulo's  life  as  upon  her  own,  she  asked  herself 
with  distress  and  fright : 

*  Why  have  I  done  it  ?     Why — why  ?' 

And  the  reason  of  her  fall,  the  intimate  cause, 
was  profoundly  secret;  hidden  away  in  the  darkest 
recesses  of  her  soul,  she  could  never  admit  it  to  her- 
self any  more  than  she  would  have  done  so  to  others. 

One  day,  not  long  after  this,  Carmela  left  the 
Variety,  where  she  had  been  going  through  a  long 
and  tedious  rehearsal,  at  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
and,  a  little  dazzled  by  the  glaring  sunlight  in  the 
street,  stood  confusedly  looking  about  her,  and  wait- 
ing for  Gargiulo,  who  had  promised  to  come  for  her, 
if  he  could  leave  the  shop  for  an  hour.  But  he 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

*  He  hasn't  been  able  to  get  away,'  she  murmured 
to  herself,  as  she  turned  into  Via  Pace,  and 
began  to  climb  the  hill  which  led  to  her  quarter  of 
the  town.  The  way  was  long,  but  she  was  light- 
footed,  and  walked  on  quickly,  holding  up  daintily 
the  striped  white  and  black  silk  gown  which  Gargiulo 

7 


98  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

had  given  her,  and  which  he  insisted  on  her  wearing 
whenever  she  was  Hkely  to  be  seen  with  him.  When 
she  reached  Piazza  Martiri  a  messenger-boy  accosted 
her.  *  Gutteridge '  was  stamped  in  gold  letters  on 
his  hat-band,  and  she  recognised  him  as  a  boy  who 
had  frequently  brought  her  notes  from  Roberto.  He 
touched  his  hat,  and  handed  her  a  letter,  saying  : 

*  This  letter  is  for  you,  miss.     There  is  no  answer.' 
Before  she  had  time  to  open  the  letter  he  had 

disappeared.  She  stopped  in  the  gardens  of  the 
Villa  Nunziati,  and  just  under  the  shadow  of  the 
great  gates,  which  were  draped  in  blooming  wisteria, 
she  read : 

*  My  dear  Carmela, 

'  I  have  not  the  courage  to  come  and  say  to 
you  what  I  am  writing.  It  would  distress  me  too 
much  to  see  you  suffer.  I  am  forced  to  leave  Naples 
for  a  time.  Some  enemies  of  mine  have  spoken 
about  our  relation  to  each  other  to  Signor  Gutteridge, 
and  he  has  reproved  me  severely.  I  had  to  answer 
that  you  and  I  had  parted.  If  I  had  not  done  so  he 
would  have  dismissed  me.  Poor  Carmela !  you  will 
cry  when  you  read  this  letter,  but  just  think :  could 
I  endure  to  be  dismissed  when  I  have  been  twelve 
years  in  the  shop  ?  You  would  not  have  wished  that, 
would  you  ?  As  they  did  not  believe  my  assertions 
and  promises  (because  I  have  promised  before  now, 
and  have  failed  to  keep  my  promises),  I  was  forced 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  99 

to  ask  myself  to  be  sent  to  Sarno  for  four  or  five 
months.  I  shall  be  in  the  silk  factory  there ;  the  pro- 
prietors are  partners  of  my  superior,  Mr.  Gutteridge, 
and  I  am  to  do  penance  with  them  for  my  beloved  sins. 
Sarno  is  very  near  Naples ;  but  I  shall  be  a  prisoner 
there  until  I  can  recover  the  esteem  of  Mr.  Gutteridge. 
Don't  cry,  Carmela  !  We  have  passed  some  happy 
hours  together.  I  shall  never  forget,  nor  you  either, 
I  am  sure.  I  shall  always  think  of  you  with  affec- 
tion, for  you  are  a  good  girl,  and  deserve  it.  Un- 
fortunately this  is  a  wicked  world,  and  I  could  neither 
marry  you  nor  continue  to  live  with  you  without 
ruining  myself.  Think  of  me  in  future  as  a  friend, 
who  will  always  be  glad  to  serve  you  when  he  can, 
in  memory  of  our  past  affection.  I  send  you  a  sad 
farewell  kiss. 

*  Remember  me  kindly, 

*  Roberto  Gargiulo.' 

She  did  not  cry.  She  was  in  a  wide,  fashionable 
street,  crowded  with  people  elegantly  dressed,  and 
she  had  sufficient  self-command  to  walk  on  quietly, 
crushing  the  open  letter  in  her  hand.  When  she 
reached  Chiaia,  and  began  to  climb  the  steps  on  the 
right  of  the  street,  she  read  the  letter  over  again 
attentively.  The  phrases — vain  and  vague  words  of 
a  false  regret — which  Roberto  Gargiulo  had  copied 
probably  from  some  romance,  did  not  conceal  the 
cold  cynicism  of  the  man,  who,  having  amused  him- 

7—2 


loo  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

self,  threw  aside  the  toy  which  had  served  his  plea- 
sure as  soon  as  it  had  become  wearisome.  Once,  at 
the  beginning  of  their  acquaintance,  all  the  pretty 
things  Roberto  Gargiulo  had  written  to  her  when  he 
wished  to  persuade  her  to  love  him  had  pleased  her 
little  sentimental  soul,  but  little  by  little  she  had 
learned  to  know  the  emptiness  of  those  phrases  and 
the  hard,  dry  nature  of  the  man ;  and  this  last  letter 
so  fully  displayed  the  cynical  coldness  of  a  tempera- 
ment given  entirely  to  the  sensual  pleasures  of  life 
that  it  completed  the  portrait  of  the  man  to  whom 
she  had  sacrificed  her  virtue.  Ungrateful !  Yes,  he 
was  ungrateful ;  there  was  not  a  syllable  in  the  letter 
which  breathed  of  real  affection  and  appreciation. 

As  she  turned  mechanically  into  Toledo,  and 
passed  through  it  to  gain  the  Vicolo  Paradiso  and 
the  poor  room — which  she  wished  to  God  she  had 
never  left — she  felt  a  tide  of  bitterness  sweep  over 
her  soul.  But  she  was  not  desperate,  and  her  almost 
slavish  sense  of  the  humility  of  woman's  place  in 
the  economy  of  the  universe  prevented  her  from 
hating  Roberto  Gargiulo  for  the  net  he  had  spread 
for  her,  the  lie  of  his  pretended  affection,  the 
brutality  with  which  he  had  ruptured  their  relation  ; 
she  felt  for  him  neither  anger  nor  hatred.  He  had 
played  his  game,  as  all  men  play  it,  to  see  whether 
he  could  succeed  ;  it  is  a  game  in  which  women  must 
try  not  to  lose !  The  whole  secret  of  the  relation 
between  the  sexes  lies  in  this.     There  is  a  popular 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  loi 

Neapolitan  saying,  daily  repeated  to  defenceless 
young  girls,  to  young  women,  and  young  wives 
exposed  to  temptation — a  saying  alike  wise  and  true 
— *  Man  is  a  hunter  J* 

She  ought  never  to  have  yielded  to  Gargiulo. 
Now,  what  right  had  she  to  claim  anything  from 
him  ?  When  she  had  yielded  she  had  imposed  no 
conditions,  and  he  had  made  no  promises.  Marriage 
had  not  been  mentioned,  nor  a  life  in  common,  nor 
eternal  love,  nor  even  a  relation  which  should  last 
for  years.  What  right  had  she,  poor  unfortunate 
one,  to  be  angry,  and  complain  ?     The  source  of  her 

misfortune  was  in  herself.    If  she  had  not  yielded 

But  she  had  done  so,  and  now  had  no  right  to  claim 
redress  from  him.  The  reasons  of  her  fall  were 
manifold,  and  were  to  be  found  in  her  weakness,  her 
isolation,  her  surroundings,  the  recollection  of  her 
godmother  Amina  Boschetti,  and  of  her  own  mother, 
who  had  never  been  married.  Roberto  Gargiulo, 
therefore,  had  only  done  what  might  reasonably 
have  been  expected.  She  was  neither  angry  nor 
despairing,  nor  did  she  suffer  the  agony  of  dis- 
appointed love ;  but  she  was  mortally  sad,  with  the 
bitterness  of  one  who  has  drunk  molten  metal.  No 
tears  fell  from  her  dry  eyes,  and  she  walked  on 
steadily  and  composedly,  though  she  was  as  pale  as 
death.  To-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  or  the  next  day 
after  that,  she  would  have  to  endure  the  sneers  and 
mocking  pity  of  her  companions  of  the  corps  de  ballet. 


I02  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

As  soon  as  one  of  them  is  abandoned  by  her  lover 
all  her  little  world  knows  it,  and  remarks  it  cruelly, 
because  the  other  ballet-girls  either  have  been  aban- 
doned in  like  manner  or  are  sure  to  be. 

As  she  entered  the  Via  Pignasecca  she  was  much 
more  agitated  than  when  she  had  read  Gargiulo's 
cruel  letter.  It  was  humiliating  to  go  home,  to  pass 
all  the  people  who  had  known  her  from  childhood. 
Involuntarily  she  cowered  and  blushed,  for  she  had 
little  pride.  In  the  piazza,  in  the  doorway  of  his 
spacious  and  elegant  pharmacy,  stood  Don  Gabriele 
Scagnamiglio,  looking  at  the  passers-by,  while  one 
of  his  subordinates  watered  and  swept  the  pavement 
in  front  of  him.  The  cavaliere  always  remained  from 
five  to  eight  in  his  pharmacy.  He  was  jealous  of  his 
interests,  and  looked  after  them  carefully — in  fact, 
he  well  knew  how  to  divide  the  hours  of  amusement 
from  those  of  labour. 

*  Oh,  my  pretty  Donna  Carmelina !'  he  exclaimed 
gaily.     *  Whence  come  you,  my  pretty  lady  ?' 

*  From  the  rehearsal,  cavaliere,'  she  replied,  stop- 
ping politely. 

*  And  we  shall  soon  see  "  Rolla  "  at  the  Variety  ?' 

*  Next  Saturday — three  days  from  now.' 

*  I  will  come  to  applaud  you,  my  little  dear,  and 
I  will  send  you  some  flowers.  You  are  in  the  first 
row  at  the  Variety  ?' 

'Yes,  I  am  leader  of  the  first  row,'  she  murmured, 
with  downcast  eyes. 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  103 

'  By  Jove  !  that  is  advancement !' 

'  They  are  summer  theatres,  cavaHere ;  all  the 
Variety  theatres  are  summer  theatres.  There  are 
no  prima  donnas ' 

*  No,  don't  say  that.  I  will  come  to  applaud  you, 
and  send  you  flowers.  Gargiulo  won't  object,  will 
he?' 

*No,'  she  answered,  after  a  moment  of  hesitation. 

He  looked  at  her  more  closely,  surveyed  her  with 
the  shrewd,  keen  eyes  of  a  man  who  knows  every- 
thing, who  can  divine  everything  from  a  pause,  from 
the  inflection  of  a  voice. 

*What  is  the  matter,  Donna  Carmelina?  Are 
you  ill  ?' 

*  No,  thank  you.     I  am  perfectly  well,  cavaliere.' 

*  Roberto  Gargiulo  has  abandoned  you,'  he  said 
brusquely. 

*  How  do  you  know  ?'  stammered  the  poor  thing, 
looking  at  him  with  frightened  eyes. 

*As  if  he  himself  had  told  me,  Carmelina.  It 
could  not  be  otherwise.' 

*  True,'  she  whispered  in  a  choked  voice. 

'  Don't  be  too  miserable,  my  dear  girl.  Too  many 
tears  spoil  a  woman's  looks  and  her  digestion.' 

*  I  have  not  been  crying,  cavaliere.' 

He  looked  keenly  at  her,  and  said  suddenly : 

*  Then  you  did  not  love  him  ?' 

*  No,  cavaliere,'  she  answered,  turning  away. 

'  Nor  he,  either  ?     He  was  not  in  love  with  you  ?' 


104  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

*  He  ?     Not  in  the  least !'  she  replied. 
'And,  then  .  .  .    Why?  .  .  .    Why?' 

*  Why  ?  .  .  .  And  who  knows  why  ?  No  one 
knows  why !     Good-day,  cavaliere.' 

*  You  are  going  away  ?  Stop !  Do  you  remember 
what  I  said  to  you  at  the  Regina  d' Italia?  Your 
Don  Gabriele  is  here  for  you.  You  are  a  dear  girl. 
I  am  very  fond  of  you,  and  think  you  very  nice ; 
in  fact,  I  am  glad  that  you  are  free  of  that  selfish 
Roberto.' 

'  Good  -  morning  —  good-morning,  cavaliere,'  she 
interrupted,  turning  to  go  away,  finding  it  insupport- 
ably  painful  to  hear  what  he  said,  and  having  until 
now  only  listened  from  politeness. 

*  I  will  come  to  take  you  out  this  evening.  Shall 
we  take  supper  together  ?  You  will  not  ?  But  why 
not  ?  I  am  an  honest  man  and  a  gentleman.  You 
will  soon  see  the  difference  between  me  and  that 
poor  little  counter-jumper.  You  won't?  You  are 
still  a  little  sad,  eh  ?  You  are  going  to  shut  yourself 
up  in  the  house  for  a  little  ?  Good,  good !  I  will 
wait.  Don  Gabriele  is  a  patient  man.  My  dear 
girl,  don't  lose  this  piece  of  good  fortune;  you 
won't  have  such  chances  every  day.' 

And  he  re-entered  the  pharmacy,  inwardly  irritated, 
but  outwardly  calm  and  serene. 

The  evening  that  *  Rolla '  was  given  for  the  first 
time  the  little  theatre  was  crowded  with  an  audience 
almost   identical   with   that   which   frequented  San 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  105 

Carlo  in  the  winter,  because  the  Neapolitans  belong- 
ing to  the  beau-monde  do  not  leave  Naples  until  the 
middle  of  July. 

Don  Gabriele  Scagnamiglio  was  seated  in  the 
very  first  row  of  armchairs,  and  the  attention  he 
paid  Carmela  was  so  marked,  his  shouts  of  *  Bravo, 
Carmela!'  so  loud,  the  flowers  he  presented  to  her 
so  brilliant  and  fragrant,  that  the  poor  girl  forgot 
her  sadness  in  her  embarrassment  and  confusion. 
The  companions  who  had  sneered  at  her  for  three 
days  now  envied  her,  because  for  nearly  all  ballet- 
girls  Don  Gabriele  represented  the  ideal  lover  and 
protector — old,  rich,  fond  of  women,  generous, 
occupied  for  several  hours  every  day,  and  therefore 
easily  deceived.  The  two  sisters  Musto,  who  danced 
in  the  first  row  with  her,  implored  her  to  be  sensible, 
not  to  lose  this  splendid  chance,  to  have  a  few  days 
at  least  of  comfort  and  luxury,  and  to  lay  up  a  little 
money  for  a  rainy  day.  And  was  not  Don  Gabriele 
a  most  attractive  man — well  dressed,  perfumed  ? 

Carmela,  confused  and  frightened,  shook  her  head, 
saying,  *  No,  no  I'  hoarsely,  determined  to  refuse,  but 
not  knowing  how  to  do  so  without  being  rude.  And 
so,  only  because  she  did  not  know  how  to  say  *  No  !* 
and  although  she  told  him  so  frankly,  she  was  per- 
suaded to  take  supper  that  evening  with  Don 
Gabriele  at  Santa  Lucia  Nuova  in  the  new  restaurant 
Starita. 

The    restaurant    Starita    is    situated   on    a    tiny 


io6  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

peninsula  between  the  mainland  and  the  sea,  on 
which  is  also  built  the  fortress  called  Ovo.  The 
peninsula  is  surrounded  by  the  sea  in  a  Httle  artificial 
port,  where  yachts,  cutters  and  yolas  ride  at  anchor. 
All  along  the  peninsula  runs  a  row  of  low  houses  of 
one  story.  Built  originally  for  the  sailors  formerly 
inhabiting  the  old  street  of  Santa  Lucia,  this  row  of 
houses  is  called  Borgo  Marinai,  although  the  sailors 
have  not  yet  come  there  to  live,  because  Santa  Lucia 
has  not  yet  been  entirely  demolished.  In  the  mean- 
time, the  little  horgo  is  inhabited  by  operatives  of 
the  very  poorest  class,  and  by  all  the  people  employed 
in  the  neighbouring  bathing  establishments  and  cafe 
chantants. 

At  the  very  end,  where  the  peninsula  juts  out  into 
the  sea,  there  are  several  trattorie  and  restaurants, 
with  tables  temptingly  spread  under  bright  coloured 
awnings,  and  with  gaily-painted  wooden  balustrades, 
from  which  one  can  lean  over  the  blue  sea  below. 
In  the  summer  season  these  restaurants  are  crowded 
all  day  long  and  far  into  the  night.  Among  them 
the  restaurant  Starita  is  the  most  chic,  the  most 
aristocratic,  as  it  is  also  really  the  best.  Sitting  on 
the  balcony  of  the  Starita  on  the  long  summer 
evenings,  one  can  watch  the  lights  in  the  yachts  and 
cutters  glimmer  above  the  darkening  water,  while  in 
the  distance  the  electric  lights  in  the  two  great  hotels 
shine  far  over  the  sea,  and  brilliant  equipages  drive 
ceaselessly  along  the  quays. 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  107 

Behind,  the  dark  fortress  Ovo  rears  its  sombre 
walls — the  very  ideal  of  a  tragic  castle ;  and  beneath 
its  shadow,  and  with  the  exquisite  beauty  of  the  sea 
smiling  before  them,  the  frequenters  of  the  restaurants 
can  dine  or  sup  as  the  case  may  be.  Dishes  of  fish, 
fish-soup,  fried  fish,  are  served  here,  as  they  were 
once  served  at  Posilippo,  now  out  of  fashion  and 
almost  deserted,  because  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
distant  from  Naples,  whereas  Santa  Lucia  is  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  city. 

The  restaurants  are  expensive,  but  the  view  is  so 
lovely  that  people  do  not  quarrel  about  the  price ; 
and  all  the  world  goes  there,  especially  all  the  men 
of  society. 

On  this  particular  evening,  Don  Gabriele  Scagna- 
miglio  showed  really  exquisite  tact  in  not  alarming 
Carmela  in  any  way.  It  was  quite  enough  for  him, 
as  a  beginning,  that  the  girl  should  have  accepted 
his  invitation  to  supper  at  the  restaurant  Starita, 
where  everyone  would  be  sure  to  see  her  with  him. 
This  was  all  he  desired  for  the  present.  He  was 
not  in  the  least  in  love  with  her ;  at  his  age,  as  he 
frequently  declared,  he  was  not  stupid  enough  to  fall 
in  love  with  every  woman  more  or  less  young. 
Perhaps  he  had  never  been  in  love  in  his  life,  feel- 
ing, like  the  egoist  he  was,  that  such  a  sentiment 
would  have  seriously  disturbed  the  line  of  conduct 
he  had  marked  out  for  himself — that  of  a  life 
dedicated  solely  to  pleasure.     Carmela  had  always 


io8  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

pleased  him,  although  she  was  neither  beautiful, 
lively,  nor  graceful. 

'  She  was  young — she  was  **  new,"  '  he  said  to 
himself;  'she  had  not  learned  all  the  deceitfulness 
and  perversity  of  the  women  who  are  accustomed  to 
see  the  worst  side  of  life  ;'  and  this  was  enough  for 
Don  Gabriele  Scagnamiglio. 

It  was  not  a  conquest  to  be  proud  of,  especially  as 
another  lover  had  preceded  him  ;  but  at  sixty  years 
old  the  gay  druggist  knew  how  to  accept  facts,  and 
he  was  almost  glad  that  Roberto  Gargiulo  had  pre- 
ceded him,  and  that  he  could  take  his  place  without 
self-reproach  or  remorse.  Carmela  had  preferred 
Roberto  to  him,  it  is  true,  but  he  was  too  thorough 
a  philosopher  to  be  angry  because  a  young  man  had 
been  preferred  to  him.  And  now  that  this  poor 
wounded  soul  had  fallen  into  his  hands,  he  treated 
her  with  perfect  tact  and  kindness,  never  speaking 
of  love.  He  knew  well  how  to  take  women — 
capricious,  feeble,  incomprehensible  creatures,  but 
not  incomprehensible  to  a  man  who  has  thought  of 
nothing  but  women  for  forty  years. 

He  walked  along  the  street  by  Carmela's  side,  not 
giving  her  his  arm,  not  talking  sentimentally,  but 
amusing  her  by  a  hundred  witty  sayings  and  enter- 
taining anecdotes  of  his  travels,  for  though  he  worked 
hard  ten  months  of  the  year,  he  allowed  himself  a 
hoHday  of  a  month  in  the  spring  and  a  month  in  the 
autumn.     On  such  occasions  he  never  remained  in 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  109 

Italy.  He  always  went  to  other  countries,  oftenest 
to  Paris.  As  they  passed  under  the  dark  shadow  of 
the  fortress  Ovo,  he  said  to  Carmela : 

*  Carmelina,  I  must  take  you  to  Paris  some  day.' 
Carmela   forced   a   smile.      She   knew  that   Don 

Gabriele  only  said  this  from  pure  politeness  ;  she  for- 
bore to  interrupt  him  for  the  same  reason.  Although 
it  was  so  late,  the  restauant  Starita  was  crowded ; 
its  lighted  lamps  shone  on  tables  surrounded  by 
groups  of  three,  four  or  five  Neapolitans;  the  waiters 
ran  hither  and  thither,  having  more  to  do  than  they 
could  well  manage. 

*  Do  you  like  it  here,  Carmela  ?' 

*  Yes,  it  is  pretty,'  she  answered,  looking  at  the 
city,  the  sea,  and  Vesuvius  burning  in  the  distance. 

They  found  a  little  table,  arranged  for  two  persons, 
near  a  much  larger  one,  prepared  for  a  party  of 
eight,  and  covered  with  plates  of  hors  d'ceuvres, 
pyramids  of  fruit,  and  bouquets  of  flowers.  It  had 
been  engaged  since  early  in  the  morning,  the  waiter 
said,  and  the  guests  would  arrive  in  a  few  moments. 
Don  Gabriele,  always  inquisitive,  asked  who  they 
were,  and  the  man  named  two  or  three  of  them. 

*The  Duke  of  Sanframondi,  Count  Ferdinando 
Terzi,  Count  Althan ' 

*  All  friends — all  acquaintances,'  said  the  druggist 
joyously,  infinitely  happy  to  be  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  such  distinguished  people. 

Carmela    Minino   looked   at   him  with   imploring 


no  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

eyes;  she  felt  an  imperious  desire  to  go  away,  but 
she  had  not  the  courage  to  say  so  to  her  companion. 
Rush  away — but  where  ?  What  would  Don  Gabriele 
Scagnamiglio  think  ?  That  she  was  a  mad  creature, 
a  fool.  How  could  she  say  it  to  him  ?  What  could 
she  say  to  him  ?  and  why  should  she  go  away  ? 
There  or  in  another  place — would  it  not  be  the  same 
thing  ? 

She  swallowed  down  the  hot  tears  which  rose  to 
her  eyes,  and  remained  in  her  place,  on  thorns, 
answering  Don  Gabriele  as  well  as  she  could  when 
he  asked  her  what  she  would  have  for  supper,  and 
sitting  up  straight  and  rigid  in  her  black-and-white 
striped  silk,  the  only  one  which  she  possessed,  and 
looking  the  colour  of  clay,  under  her  pale-blue  gauze 
hat — a  hat  which  the  milliner  had  insisted  on  making 
for  her,  and  which  was  frightfully  unbecoming.  It 
was  so  near  the  other  table  !  And,  in  fact,  after  a 
few  moments  the  four  couples  arrived,  and  entered 
with  much  loud  talking  and  laughing  on  the  part  of 
the  women — Concetta  Giura,  Emilia  Tromba,  the 
Spanish  singer  Mariquita,  who  had  an  engagement 
at  the  Eldorado,  and  the  beautiful  pantomime 
actress,  Alina  Bell.  They  sat  down,  still  talking 
and  laughing  noisily,  beside  the  four  silent  gentlemen 
who  accompanied  them.  Carmela  had  not  seen 
Concetta  and  Emilia  since  the  close  of  the  season  at 
San  Carlo,  as  these  two  young  ladies  allowed  them- 
selves the  luxury  of  not  dancing  in  summer.     And 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  in 

although  it  was  perfectly  well  known  that  Sanfra- 
mondi  was  dead-tired  of  Concetta  Giura,  and  that 
Ferdinando  Terzi  had  never  cared  for  Emilia,  and 
only  used  her  as  a  blind  to  deceive  a  jealous  husband, 
the  two  gentlemen  took  their  mistresses  everywhere, 
giving  them  country  jaunts,  dinners  or  suppers,  as 
the  case  might  be.  In  taking  their  places,  it  hap- 
pened that  Ferdinando  Terzi  sat  down  directly 
opposite  to  Carmela.  Nothing  in  his  aspect  was 
changed ;  he  wore  a  white  carnation  in  the  button- 
hole of  his  elegant  evening  smoking- jacket  ;  his 
blond  moustaches  curled  as  softly  as  ever  above  the 
red,  sensual  lips  which  never  smiled ;  the  noble 
profile,  so  rigidly  aquiline  that  it  seemed  chiselled 
in  marble,  was  as  beautiful  as  ever  ;  the  large,  light- 
blue  eyes  as  proud  and  glacial.  For  one  instant  he 
fixed  them  on  Carmela,  then  he  turned  to  Emilia 
with  a  question.  Carmela  knew  that  he  was  asking 
about  her,  and  the  place  and  company  in  which  he 
found  her.  And  when  Emilia  replied  in  a  laughing 
whisper,  she  knew  that  she  was  relating  the  story  of 
her  fall.  Still  looking  intently  at  her,  he  murmured 
two  words  of  reply  to  Emilia,  with  a  contemptuous 
curl  of  the  lip.     Carmela  heard  these  two  words : 

'A  fool!' 

Carmela  looked  through  the  darkness  at  the  city, 
the  sea,  and  the  burning  mountain.  But  she  saw 
nothing,  and  in  her  heart  she  felt  that  all  was  vanity. 


IV 

It  was  New  Year's  Eve.  At  San  Carlo  a  matinee 
of  the  *  Barber  of  Seville '  had  been  given,  without  a 
ballet ;  but  in  the  evening  '  Aida '  was  to  be  given 
with  singers  of  the  first  rank,  and  with  the  ballet 
*  Dr.  Cappelius,'  a  short,  light  ballet,  well  fitted  to 
follow  a  long,  heavy  opera  like  *  Aida,'  as  well  as  to 
show  off  the  strength  and  agility  of  Maria  Giuri',  a 
new  prima  donna  ballet-dancer,  with  large  eyes,  who 
was  excessively  thin,  and  who  seemed  formed  of  steel 
springs.  All  the  ballet-dancers,  with  their  respective 
protectors  and  families,  were  delighted.  It  was  a  nice 
little  half-way  ballet,  as  they  called  it  in  the  jargon  of 
their  profession,  with  only  three  changes  of  dress  for 
the  first  row  of  dancers,  and  two  changes  for  the 
second  and  third  rows,  but  little  fatigue,  or  compara- 
tively little,  and  the  pay  the  same  as  for  a  long  ballet. 
Everyone,  therefore,  was  pleased.  But  the  Direction 
had,  of  course,  invented  something  to  spoil  their 
pleasure :  having  insisted,  and  continuing  to  insist, 
that  twenty  ballet-girls  should  come  to  the  theatre 
before  the  beginning  of  the  opera — namely,  at  half- 
past  seven  every  evening — to  dance  in  the  second 
and  fourth  acts  of*  Aida,' the  sacred  dance  in  the 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  1 1 3 

temple  of  Ftha,  while  in  the  second  part  they  had  to 
figure  in  the  cortege  which  accompanied  Rhadames 
the  victor.  It  had  not  been  easy  to  find  twenty  ballet- 
girls  willing  to  sacrifice  themselves  in  this  manner, 
from  half-past  seven  in  the  evening  to  one  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  dressing  first  in  the  Egyptian  costumes 
belonging  to  '  Aida,'  with  the  golden  ibis  in  the  hair 
and  floating  violet  robes,  and  lastly  in  the  German 
costume  for  *  Dr.  Cappelius.'  It  was  fatiguing  work 
— work  for  slaves,  the  ballet-girls  said — and  the 
Direction  had  been  compelled  to  accept  the  services 
of  the  girls  who  danced  in  the  second  and  third  rows, 
and  who  were  the  ugliest  and  most  ungraceful,  but 
also  the  hardest  workers.  Carmela  Minino  was  one 
of  these,  she  who  could  never  say  no  when  it  was  a 
question  of  being  useful  in  any  way. 

On  this  New  Year's  evening,  although  there  was 
an  official  reception  at  the  Reggia  di  Napoli  after  the 
'  dinner  given  at  Court,  and  although  there  was  a  ball 
at  Palazzo  Savignano,  San  Carlo  was  crowded. 
The  most  fashionable  people  went  there,  either  before 
the  royal  reception  or  after  it,  on  their  way  to  the 
ball  at  Palazzo  Savignano.  All  the  women  were  in 
brilliant  full  toilets,  blazing  with  jewels,  and  they, 
too,  divided  their  time  between  the  royal  reception, 
the  theatre,  and  the  ball.  As  a  background  for  this 
distinguished  and  glittering  public  there  was  the 
mass  of  people  in  general,  who  went  neither  to  the 
royal   reception   nor  to   Palazzo   Savignano,   either 

8 


114  I^HE  BALLET  DANCER 

because  they  were  not  of  a  rank  to  be  admitted  to 
court,  or  had  not  been  invited  to  the  ball,  but  who 
nevertheless  wished  to  give  themselves  the  air  of 
belonging  to  the  beau-monde.  The  women  of  this 
second  public  were  also  in  full  dress,  as  were  the 
men.  Although  the  theatre  was  bitterly  cold,  the 
caloriferes  being  inadequate  to  heat  it,  and  although 
there  was  a  cold  draught  whenever  the  curtain  was 
lifted,  there  was  such  a  tremendous  crowd  that  the 
women  were  flushed,  and  fanned  themselves  slowly 
with  their  large  fans  of  white  ostrich  plumes. 

The  ballet-dancers  meanwhile  were  hastily  fasten- 
ing their  golden  corselets,  that  they  might  be  ready 
for  the  sacred  dance  round  Amneris,  the  proud  and 
passionate  daughter  of  the  Pharaohs,  and  notwith- 
standing the  heat  given  by  the  many  flaring  gas- 
lights, many  of  the  girls  trembled  with  cold.  Chec- 
china  Cozzolino  especially  had  a  violent  cold,  and 
could  not  succeed  in  whitening  her  red  nose  either 
with  paint  or  with  cold  cream  and  powder.  Carmela 
Minino  meanwhile  powdered  her  arms,  those  dark- 
brown  arms  which  looked  like  greenish  clay  when 
contrasted  with  the  violet  skirts  and  golden  corselet 
she  wore.  Concetta  Giura  came  to  ask  for  some 
vaseline,  if  anyone  had  it,  for  her  hands  were  chapped, 
and  the  rice-powder  irritated  them.  While  Rosina 
Musto  held  the  pot  of  vaseline  for  her,  Concetta 
tossed  a  piece  of  news  to  the  eight  girls  who  were 
dressing ; 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  115 

*  Do  you  know  what  has  happened  ?  A  gentleman 
has  been  killed  !  a  nobleman ' 

*  Who — who — who  ?'  screamed  four  or  five  of  the 
girls. 

*  And  who  killed  him — who — who  ?'  screamed  the 
others,  while  the  call-boy  knocked  and  shouted  at 
the  door. 

*  I  don't  know — I  don't  know !'  she  answered, 
rushing  away.  '  If  I  find  out,  I  will  come  and  tell 
you !'  she  screamed  from  the  corridor. 

*  As  you  know,'  said  Rosina  Musto,  in  a  low  voice, 
but  so  distinctly  as  to  be  heard  by  all  present,  '  San- 
framondi  has  abandoned  Concetta.' 

Nearly  all  of  them  knew  it,  even  Carmela  Minino. 
She  said  nothing,  but  feigned  to  arrange  the  ibis  in 
her  hair.  She  had  become  of  late  more  reserved  and 
more  gloomy,  very  abstracted  and  inattentive  to  what 
she  did.  Whether  she  were  dressed  for  the  street  or 
for  the  ballet,  she  always  kept  in  a  corner  where  she 
sat  with  downcast  eyes,  apparently  unconscious  of 
all  that  passed  around  her.  She  had  not  attended  to 
what  Concetta  had  said,  but  the  words  reached  her 
brain  nevertheless.  As  the  call-boy  knocked  for  the 
second  time,  she  asked  herself:  Who  could  have 
been  killed  in  that  great  world  where  people  were 
too  fortunate  to  want  to  kill  themselves,  where  they 
were  only  killed  in  duels  ?     A  duel,  perhaps  ? 

The  dancers  re-entered,  having  finished  the  sacred 
dance,  and  they  had  now  to  wait  until,  at  the  sound 

8—2 


ii6  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

of  the  famous  march,  they  were  called  to  follow 
Rhadames.  They  walked  up  and  down,  chatting, 
puUing  their  shoulder-straps  with  the  gesture  so 
peculiar  to  ballet-dancers,  who  are  apparently  always 
afraid  that  their  waists  will  slip  down.  Some  of 
them  touched  up  their  faces,  others  arranged  their 
hair  or  blew  on  their  cold  fingers.  No  one  sat 
down,  for  fear  of  spoiling  the  pretty  flimsy  skirts. 
Carmela  Minino  leaned  against  the  door,  her  arms 
hanging  by  her  sides,  her  gaze  fixed  on  vacancy. 

*  What  are  you  thinking  of — of  the  sheep  you  have 
in  Puglia  ?'  said  Filomena  Scoppa,  laughing,  and 
using  ironically  the  popular  phrase  for  the  preoccupa- 
tion caused  by  great  wealth. 

*  I  have  a  headache,'  answered  Carmela,  in  a  low 
voice. 

'  And  you  come  here  to  dance  ?  Why  did  not  you 
stay  at  home  ?' 

'  At  home  ?  I  am  so  dull,'  murmured  Carmela 
languidly. 

*  No  /'  exclaimed  the  other  ironically,  because  since 
Carmela  had  fallen  she  was  despised  by  Filomena, 
now  the  only  honest  girl  in  the  corps  de  ballet. 

At  this  moment  the  blonde  Concetta  Giura  ran  in, 
panting. 

*  I  made  a  mistake,  I  made  a  mistake  !  They  told 
me  one  thing,  and  meant  another !  He  was  not 
killed,  this  gentleman,  this  nobleman ;  he  killed 
himself;  he  committed  suicide !' 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  117 

*  But  who  is  he — who  is  he  ?'  screamed  the  girls, 
forming  a  circle  round  Concetta. 

*  I  don't  know.  No  one  knows  as  yet.  They  say 
it  is  a  young  man  who  has  killed  himself;  that's  all 
I  know.' 

'  For  debt  ?' 
'  For  love  ?' 

*  Nonsense!    Love!  bah!  love?    Debts,  of  course !' 

*  I  don't  know  anything,'  she  answered,  open- 
ing her  arms.  '  Some  other  news  we  shall  have 
assuredly.' 

Carmela  Minino  had  formed  one  of  the  circle 
round  Concetta  Giura.  Her  head  ached,  perhaps  in 
consequence  of  the  loud  voices,  and  the  ibis  weighed 
like  lead.  She  did  not  say  a  word.  All  the  noise 
and  chatter  reached  her  ear  like  a  vain,  irritating 
hum.  And  it  was  necessary  to  take  her  place  in  the 
procession.  Who  could  have  killed  himself?  Poor 
fellow !  Who  knew  how  and  why  ?  she  said  to 
herself,  but  without  dwelling  on  the  thought.  The 
pain  in  her  head  was  so  great,  there  was  such 
a  weight  on  all  her  limbs,  and  she  felt  unutter- 
ably sad  that  evening,  though  she  did  not  know 
why. 

The  orchestra  began  the  first  notes  of  the  march. 
Concetta  Giura,  Carmela  Minino,  and  the  other  girls 
rushed  to  take  their  places.  An  icy  wind  blew  from 
the  wings  and  made  them  shiver.  So  the  impresario 
wanted  to  send   them  all  to  the  other  world  with 


Ii8  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

bronchitis,  pneumonia,  consumption  ?  Fortunately, 
it  would  be  warmer  near  the  footlights.  As  they  filed 
along  the  stage  Concetta,  who  was  two  rows  in 
advance  of  Carmela,  turned  and  said  : 

*  Carmela,  look  there  in  the  palco  dei  nohili  /' 
This  palco  dei  nohili  was  really  that  of  the  Club 
Nazionale,  a  large  proscenium  box  to  the  right  of  the 
stage,  where  every  member  of  the  club  makes  a 
point  of  appearing  on  theatre  nights,  if  only  for  five 
minutes,  either  because  of  an  appointment  with  some 
friend,  or  to  glance  round  the  house  through  the  green 
gauze  screen  in  search  of  some  lady,  or  to  leave 
paletot  and  cane  in  order  to  make  visits  in  the 
different  boxes.  From  this  vantage  ground,  too,  the 
clubmen  can  compliment  the  ballet-dancers  or  joke 
with  them,  or  even  make  appointments. 

At  Concetta's  suggestion  Carmela  looked  at  the 
box.  There  were  three  or  four  gentlemen  at  the  back 
of  the  box  who  were  talking  eagerly  among  them- 
selves. Carmela  recognised  the  Duke  of  Sanfra- 
mondi  and  Count  Althan.  She  could  not  distin- 
guish the  others,  who  were  in  deep  shadow.  While 
she  was  looking  they  all  left  the  box,  which  remained 
empty  for  some  time.  Then  appeared  Inigo  Assante, 
a  pale,  slender  youth,  who  sat  down  without  even 
glancing  at  the  stage,  and  then  hurriedly  left  the 
box,  as  if  he  had  been  called  from  without.  Mean- 
while, the  procession  retired,  and  the  ballet-girls 
returned  to  their  dressing-rooms,  there  to  wait  until 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  119 

they  were  called  to  dance  the  sacred  funereal  dance 
on  the  stone  which  covers  the  grave  of  the  traitor 
Rhadames. 

An  hour  elapsed,  which  seemed  an  eternity  to 
Carmela  Minino.  Up  to  this  time  she  had  felt  ill 
and  stupefied.  Now  a  feverish  energy  supervened — 
a  wild  desire  to  move,  speak,  and  act.  She  longed 
to  leave  her  dressing-room  and  go  to  that  of  the 
ballet-girls  of  the  first  row,  in  order  to  speak  to 
Concetta  Giura.  She  wanted  to  ask  her  whether 
she  had  seen  Ferdinando  Terzi  di  Torregrande  in 
the  palco  dei  nohili — whether  he  were  not  one  of  the 
two  who  stood  in  the  shadow  talking  with  Sanfra- 
mondi  and  Althan. 

As  the  moments  passed,  she  wished  more  and  more 
to  do  this,  but  she  was  too  shy.  They  said  that 
Terzi  had  abandoned  Emilia  Tromba  in  October, 
and  that  she  had  already  given  him  a  successor  in 
the  Marquis  of  Rivadedro,  an  old  viveur  who  had 
already  devoured  two  fortunes,  and,  with  Emilia's 
help,  was  getting  through  a  third.  Of  course,  one  of 
the  two  noblemen  who  stood  in  the  shadow  must 
have  been  Count  Terzi,  who  was  always  with  San- 
framondi  and  Althan ;  perhaps  they  were  discussing 
this  suicide,  which  was  a  blow  to  them  all.  Perhaps 
the  unfortunate  man  had  been  a  friend  of  theirs. 

While  waiting  for  the  last  act  of  '  Aida,'  Carmela 
revolved  all  these  thoughts  in  her  mind,  but  she 
could  not  summon  the  courage  to  go  and  find  Con- 


I20  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

cetta.  Besides,  Concetta  was  so  fond  of  gossip  that 
she  would  have  come  at  once  had  she  heard  anything 
new.  Notwithstanding  the  dull  restlessness  which 
caused  her  to  tremble  internally,  Carmela  did  not 
move.  The  trembling  was  caused  by  her  headache, 
she  thought,  which  now  had  transformed  itself  into  a 
series  of  sword-thrusts,  which  pierced  her  brain  every 
moment  or  two.  She  suffered  acutely,  but  she  was 
silent,  and  so  timid,  that  she  never  said  anything 
about  her  sufferings,  either  physical  or  mental,  even 
to  persons  of  her  own  sex.  At  last  the  ballet  was 
called,  and  the  girls  ran  out,  adjusting  their  airy 
skirts  as  they  flew  along. 

The  scene  in  the  last  act  of  '  Aida  '  is  divided  into 
two  stages,  upper  and  lower,  the  upper  being  the 
temple  of  Ftha,  where  the  funereal  ceremonies  and 
mortuary  dance  are  performed,  and  the  lower  the 
crypt  in  which  Rhadames  and  Aida  sing  their  adieu 
to  earth  and  life,  and  in  a  delirium  of  love  and  death 
see  the  heavens  open  to  receive  them.  While  the 
dance  is  still  going  on  in  the  temple,  Amneris 
appears,  veiled  in  black  and  weeping.  She  passes  the 
dancers  in  their  floating  robes,  approaches  the  tomb, 
kisses  it,  lays  a  flower  upon  it,  and  kneels  in  prayer. 
Meanwhile,  the  dance  proceeds  to  the  sound  of  the 
mystic  music  chanted  to  Ftha.  The  ballet-girls 
were  divided  into  two  groups,  half  placed  in  the 
wings  on  one  side  of  the  stage  and  half  on  the  other, 
and  they  alternately  advanced,  receded,  and  crossed 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  121 

each  other,  and  then  dissolved  to  form  four  immov- 
able groups. 

Concetta  Giura  issued  from  the  wings  at  the  right 
of  the  stage,  leading  the  line  of  ballet-dancers,  and 
Carmela  Minino  moved  from  the  left,  the  two  groups 
dancing  a  languid  Oriental  dance.  Towards  the 
close,  when  the  figure  of  the  ballet  brought  them 
together,  Concetta  said  in  an  agitated  voice : 

*You  would  never  believe — no,  you  could  never 
believe — who  it  is  that  has  killed  himself !' 

'  Who  ?'  stammered  Carmela. 

Concetta  had  no  time  to  answer,  because  the  move- 
ment of  the  ballet  divided  them  for  five  or  six 
minutes;  then,  as  the  music  grew  faster  and  they 
were  once  more  together,  Concetta  said  : 

*  Ferdinando  Terzi  has  killed  himself — shot  him- 
self through  the  heart  with  a  revolver ' 

Carmela  stopped  short.  Quivering  from  head  to 
foot,  she  retreated  to  the  back  of  the  stage,  and 
leaned  against  one  of  the  imitation  columns  of  the 
temple.  A  crowd  of  priests  and  altar-servers  passed 
back  and  forth  before  her,  and  one  of  them,  seeing 
that  she  was  pale  and  leaned  her  head  against  her 
arm,  said : 

*  What  is  the  matter  ?     Do  you  feel  ill,  signorina  ?' 
She    looked    the    man   full   in   the   face   without 

answering.  She  had  not  understood  what  he  said, 
as  she  understood  no  longer  where  she  was,  nor 
what  was  meant  by  the  shouts  of  the  singers,  the 


122  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

rolling  music  of  the  orchestra,  the  excited  spectators, 
the  strangely-dressed  actors,  and  the  flying  figures  of 
the  ballet-girls,  who  turned  every  now  and  then  an 
inquisitive,  but  indifferent,  glance  upon  her. 

All  this  she  saw  through  a  mist,  and  it  seemed  to 
her  that  she  was  nailed  to  that  column  of  papier- 
mache,  that  her  legs  in  their  silken  tights  were  bound 
to  it  with  iron  bands,  that  she  struggled  vainly  against 
these  bands  in  an  agony  of  desire  to  fly  away — away. 
Then  the  silent  anguish  became  more  intense,  more 
profound ;  her  will  steadied  itself  and  strained,  as  if 
she  were  about  to  break  an  iron  bar,  and  suddenly 
she  was  free  to  go  whither  she  would. 

She  rushed  away  from  the  stage  while  the  scene 
was  closing,  dashed  into  the  dressing-room,  and 
began  to  tear  the  ibis  from  her  hair,  and  unfasten 
her  glittering  corselet,  with  trembling  hands  which 
tore  and  broke  everything  they  touched.  The  ballet- 
girls  entered  in  wild  confusion,  all  talking  about 
the  suicide,  shouting,  screaming,  contradicting  each 
other,  repeating  the  rumours  already  circulated  in 
the  theatre  and  on  the  stage,  disputing,  and  almost 
coming  to  blows. 

'  He  killed  himself  at  eight  o'clock.' 

*  No,  signora,  at  ten ' 

*  He  killed  himself  in  his  own  house.' 

*  But,  no — his  own  house,  no  !  He  had  not  been 
home  for  twenty-four  hours ' 

*  They  thought  he  had  left  Naples.' 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  123 

'  He  had  said  that  he  was  going  to  Rome.' 
'  He  killed  himself  in  a  hotel.' 
'The  Grand  Hotel— the  Grand  Hotel !' 
'  Not  at  all— at  the  Hotel  Royal ' 

*  What  are  you  saying  ?  How  stupid  you  are  ! 
He  killed  himself  at  the  Suisse,  in  the  Via  Molo.' 

'A  gentleman  like  him  in  that  hole  !' 
'  But  I  tell  you  that  it  was  at  the  Royal !' 
'  At  the  Suisse — at  the  Suisse  !     It  seems  he  had 
only  five  francs  in  his  pocket.' 

*  But  he  has  not  killed  himself  for  debts ' 

*  For  love — for  love  !' 

*  What  a  pity  !     Such  a  handsome  young  man  1' 

*  The  handsorriest  young  man  I  ever  saw.  I  could 
have  loved  him.' 

*  Now  he  is  dead — he  is  dead.' 

*  He  did  not  please  me  ;  he  was  too  proud.' 

*  And  Emilia  Tromba — what  will  Emilia  Tromba 
say?' 

*  What  does  she  care  ?  She  has  another  already. 
She  has  never  loved  anyone  in  this  world.' 

'  Except  that  coachman,  who  was  her  first  love ' 

*  A  coachman  ? — a  coachman  ?  And  she  had  arrived 
at  Ferdinando  Terzi  ?' 

*Yes,  and  how  she  has  spent  his  money  for 
him !  She,  too,  has  been  one  of  the  causes  of  his 
death.' 

*  He  has  killed  himself  for  that  lady,  you  know ' 

*  What  lady  ?— what  lady  ?' 


1 24                        THE  BALLET  DA NCER 
*  The  Countess  of  Miradais ' 


*  The  Countess  of  Miradais — yes,  yes- 


Carmela  continued  to  undress,  and  instead  of 
turning  away,  as  had  been  her  habit,  when  she 
stripped  off  her  tights — for  she  was  a  modest  crea- 
ture— she  tore  everything  off  recklessly,  and  threw 
it  away  from  her,  seizing  her  out-of-door  clothes  and 
throwing  them  on  with  trembling  hands,  which  were 
incapable  of  tying  strings,  fastening  hooks  and  eyes, 
or  slipping  buttons  in  the  button-holes.  She  heard 
all  that  was  said,  with  downcast  eyes,  compressed 
lips,  and  an  expression  of  ferocious  anger  on  her  face. 
Seeing  that  she  was  dressed  to  go  away : 

*  What  are  you  doing  ?  Don't  you  remember 
that  we  have  to  dance  in  "  Dr.  Coppelius  "  ?'  asked 
Filomena  Scoppa. 

Carmela  looked  at  her  without  answering,  and  put 
on  her  jacket. 

*  Are  you  going  away  ? — are  you  really  going 
away  ?'  said  Rosina  Musto.     *  Don't  you  feel  well  ?' 

Carmela  Minino  put  on  her  hat,  pricking  herself 
with  her  hat-pins  as  she  did  so,  glanced  round 
vaguely  as  she  took  up  her  gloves  and  bag,  and  left 
the  room  without  bidding  anyone  good-night. 

*  But  what  is  the  matter  ?  What  has  happened 
to  her  ?' 

'  Who  knows  ?' 

*  She  has  been  like  a  crazy  woman  for  some  time.' 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  125 

As  Carmela  walked  with  a  quick,  decided  step 
down  the  corridor  which  led  to  the  grand  entrance 
she  knocked  against  and  jostled  several  people,  but 
she  saw  and  heard  nothing.  Only  when  she  reached 
the  portico  she  saw  two  or  three  gentlemen  standing 
and  talking,  wrapped  in  their  fur  paletots. 

Some  stray  phrases  caught  her  ear  : 

*  Dead  !  three  hours  ago.' 

*  The  family  has  not  been  told  yet.' 

*  There  can  be  no  religious  services.' 

The  icy  tramontana  wind  blew  in  Carmela's  face, 
but  she  did  not  feel  it.  She  had  rubbed  her  face 
violently  to  take  off  the  paint,  and  her  cheeks  burned. 
She  went  down  the  steps  and  looked  right  and  left 
for  a  carriage.  And  at  this  moment  Don  Gabriele 
Scagnamiglio  appeared  before  her,  comfortably 
wrapped  in  his  rich  furred  paletot,  with  his  beautiful 
white  beard  carefully  brushed  and  perfumed,  his 
silver-headed  ebony  cane  in  his  hand,  and  the  usual 
expression  of  jovial,  careless,  selfish  enjoyment.  She 
started  away  from  him  with  something  like  aversion. 

*  Where  are  you  going,  my  pretty  one  ?'  he  asked, 
not  perceiving  her  agitation. 

She  had  called  an  open  carriage,  and  was  getting 
in  as  he  spoke. 

*  But  one  may  know  where  you  are  going,'  said 
Don  Gabriele  imperiously,  in  the  tone  of  a  master. 

She  had  already  taken  her  seat,  and  with  downcast 
eyes  and  grinding  teeth  she  replied : 


126  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

*  Wherever  I  please.' 

'  Ah  !'  exclaimed  Don  Gabriele  ironically.  *  Al- 
ready ?     And  when  shall  we  meet  again  ?' 

*  Never  again,'  she  answered  in  a  choked  voice, 
full  of  irrepressible  scorn,  as  the  carriage  turned 
towards  Chiaia. 

Don  Gabriele  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  entered 
the  theatre. 

When  Carmela's  cab  reached  the  Grand  Hotel  it 
wanted  a  quarter  to  twelve  o'clock.  The  carriage 
had  come  in  ten  minutes  from  San  Carlo,  because 
the  coachman,  chilled  by  the  tramontana,  had  beaten 
his  horse  without  mercy,  urged  thereto  by  Carmela, 
who  implored  him  to  drive  quickly  if  he  wanted  extra 
pay. 

The  coachman  glanced  back  at  her  occasion- 
ally, and  thought  that  she  could  not  feel  the  cold, 
whoever  she  was,  as  she  did  not  turn  up  the  collar  of 
her  jacket,  and  looked  continually  right  and  left,  at 
the  Villa  Nazionale,  looming  dark  in  the  dark  night, 
and  at  the  black  water,  which  beat  and  moaned 
against  the  sea-wall. 

The  cab  turned  round  the  garden  in  front  of  the 
Grand  Hotel,  and  Carmela  sprang  hastily  out.  The 
great  door  of  the  magnificent  place  was  still  open, 
for  forestieri  were  expected  in  the  midnight  train  from 
Rome,  and  others,  already  staying  in  the  hotel,  were 
at  the  theatre.  The  majestic  Suisse,  gorgeous  in  full 
livery,  with  his  hat  and   gilt   hat-band  well   pulled 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  127 

down  over  his  eyes,  walked  to  and  fro.      Carmela 
went  directly  up  to  him. 

*  Excuse  me,'  she  said,  looking  him  straight  in  the 
eyes,  *  has  a  gentleman  killed  himself  here  ?' 

*  What  do  you  say  ?  What  do  you  mean,  sig- 
nora?'  stammered  the  porter,  stupefied  with  astonish- 
ment at  such  a  question. 

*  I  want  to  know  if  Count  Ferdinando  Terzi  di 
Torregrande  has  killed  himself  here,'  she  repeated 
distinctly. 

The  porter  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  as  if  he 
thought  her  mad.     Then  he  answered  politely  : 

*  No,  signora  ;  no  one  has  committed  suicide  here.' 
She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  looking  at  him  fixedly, 

as  if  she  wished  to  wrench  a  decided  reply  from  him. 

*  Tell  me  the  truth,'  she  murmured,  with  a  trem- 
bling voice — '  tell  it  to  me ;  I  must  know  it !  If  it  was 
here,  tell  me ' 

She  was  now  so  agitated  that  the  porter  began  to 
understand,  and  he  replied  gently  : 

*  I  assure  you,  signora,  that  the  gentleman  did  not 
kill  himself  here.' 

'Then  please  excuse  me.  Good-night  and  thank 
you.     Good-night.' 

The  porter  saw  her  turn  away  with  a  firm  step, 
and,  after  saying  a  word  to  the  coachman,  she  got 
into  the  carriage  again  and  drove  away  at  a  furious 
pace  along  the  Via  Caracciolo,  now  absolutely  de- 
serted and  sombre,  with  the  dark  sea  rolling  heavily 


128  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

on  one  side  and  the  thick  foHage  of  the  Giardino 
Nazionale  on  the  other. 

'  Quick,  quick,  for  the  love  of  God !'  called  Car- 
mela  to  the  coachman. 

By  this  time  the  coachman  had  divined  that  some- 
thing terrible  had  happened  to  the  poor  girl,  and 
turning  every  now  and  then,  he  looked  curiously  and 
compassionately  at  her  as  she  quivered  with  im- 
patience and  drove  through  the  bitterly  cold  night 
from  one  hotel  to  another.  When  they  stopped  at 
the  Hotel  Royal  in  the  Via  Chiatamone  the  doors 
were  being  closed ;  even  the  porter  had  gone  to  bed, 
and  no  one  remained  but  the  night-watchman,  who 
was  lying  on  a  bench  in  the  hall.  Carmela  addressed 
her  strange  tragic  question  to  him.  This  night- 
watchman  was  a  Neapolitan.  He  looked  at  her  with 
an  ironical  smile  and  said : 

*  My  daughter,  someone  has  played  a  trick  on 
you.' 

*  No,  the  gentleman  has  really  killed  himself,'  she 
answered,  looking  round  her  with  so  pale  a  face  and 
such  burning  eyes  that  the  watchman  at  once  ceased 
to  joke. 

*  But  not  here — not  here,  God  be  praised !' 

*  Are  you  certain  of  that,  good  man — quite  certain  ?' 

*  As  certain  as  death,  my  daughter.' 

'Then  good-night — good-night.  I  will  go  some- 
where else.' 

When  she  was  once  again  in  the  street  Carmela 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  129 

felt    utterly   discouraged.      The    coachman    waited, 
looking  at  her  attentively. 

*  It  is  not  here,  either,'  she  murmured  to  herself, 
with  an  infantile  expression  of  despair. 

*  But  who  are  you  looking  for,  signorina  ?  Who 
are  you  looking  for  ?'  said  the  coachman,  glad  to  be 
able  to  satisfy  his  curiosity. 

*A  person,'  she  stammered — *a  gentleman  who 
has  killed  himself.' 

'  Madonna  del  Carmine !  And  he  was  something 
to  you,  this  gentleman  ?' 

She  looked  at  the  man  without  speaking.  He 
began  to  understand  that  the  suicide  was  'some- 
thing '  to  her. 

'  And  you  don't  know  where  ?' 

'They  told  me  two  or  three  hotels,  but  he  was 
not  there.     I  have  not  found  him ' 

*  Did  they  tell  you  any  others  ?' 

'  Yes — yes,  the  Suisse.  Where  is  it  ?  At  the 
Molo,  they  told  me.' 

'  Who  knows,  signorina  mia  ?  I  have  never  heard 
of  such  a  hotel.  Let  us  go  to  the  Molo.  Who 
has  a  tongue  in  his  head  can  go  to  Sardinia.' 

They  passed  before  San  Carlo  just  as  people  were 
leaving  it ;  but  Carmela  did  not  look  round.  It  was 
past  midnight,  and  she  feared  that  the  Suisse  might 
be  shut.  They  passed  Piazza  San  Carlo,  Piazza 
Municipio,  and  drove  along  the  Via  Molo,  while 
they  both  looked  in  every  direction  for  the  Suisse. 

9 


I30 


THE  BALLET  DANCER 


Finally,  in  an  angle  between  Via  Porto  and  Via 
Molo,  in  a  corner  where  they  were  already  beginning 
to  pull  down  the  old  part  of  Naples,  they  saw  a 
forlorn  sign  swinging  in  the  wind.  The  light  of  a 
street-lamp  fell  across  it,  and  they  read  *  Pension 
Suisse.' 

*  It  is  there,'  she  breathed,  looking  up  at  the 
balcony.  The  windows  were  shut,  the  lace  curtains 
closely  drawn,  but  behind  the  curtains  a  light  was 
visible. 

The  door  of  the  Pension  Suisse  was  partly  open — 
a  little  way.  Carmela  slid  in,  and  found  herself  in 
a  dark,  damp  hall,  feebly  lighted  by  a  smoky  petro- 
leum lamp. 

A  shabbily  dressed  man,  with  a  greasy,  ragged 
cap  on  his  head,  was  walking  up  and  down,  and 
whistling  an  air  from  *  Cicuzza.'  Carmela  ap- 
proached him ;  the  man  turned  his  flabby  face  and 
furtive  eyes  towards  her,  and  looked  at  her  sus- 
piciously. 

'  Is  it  here,'  she  said,  repeating  for  the  third  time 
her  mournful  query — 'is  it  here  that  Count  Ferdi- 
nando  Terzi  di  Torregrande  killed  himself?' 

'  Yes,  for  our  misfortune,'  grumbled  the  man  in 
reply. 

*  Ah  !'  she  exclaimed,  growing  paler  than  before. 

Suddenly  she  turned,  went  out  of  the  door,  opened 
her  purse  and  paid  the  coachman.  He  looked  at  her 
with  compassionate  eyes. 


777^  BALLET  DANCER  131 

*  You  have  found  him,  eh  ?'  he  asked,  in  a  tone 
full  of  sympathy. 

*Yes,  I  have  found  him,'  answered  Carmela,  in 
her  dull,  choked  voice,  adding  a  franc  of  pourboire 
to  the  fare. 

*  Shall  I  wait  for  you,  signorina?  answered  the 
coachman,  touched  by  the  adventure  and  the  franc. 

*  No,  don't  wait  for  me.' 

She  re-entered  the  door,  but  the  porter  barred  the 
way. 

*  Where  are  you  going  ?' 

*  To  see  the  corpse.' 

*  Do  you  belong  to  the  family  ?'  said  the  man, 
looking  at  her  steadfastly. 

'No.' 

*  And,  then,  why  do  you  want  to  go  up  ?' 

*  I  am  his  servant,'  she  answered,  slipping  two 
francs  into  his  hand. 

Fortunately  she  had  two  weeks'  pay  in  her  purse 
— money  which  she  had  received  that  very  day. 
She  felt  her  way  upstairs — a  narrow  stair,  at  the 
head  of  which  a  light  burned.  It  was  a  feeble  light, 
and  barely  served  to  show  the  staircase,  the  dirty 
walls,  the  forlorn  landing,  bare  save  for  a  shabby  strip 
of  cocoa-matting.  A  manservant  sat  there,  dozing 
beside  the  table  where  the  lamp  burned.  Carmela 
at  once  understood,  not  only  that  it  was  a  third-class 
pension,  but  one  of  ill-fame ;  the  horrible  rooms  being 
let  for  a  day,  half  a  day,  two  hours,  or  one  hour, 

9—2 


132  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

to  people  who  arrived  in  haste  and  without  luggage, 
who  paid  in  a  hurry  on  arriving,  and  departed 
hurriedly  and  silently,  creeping  away  with  downcast 
eyes  and  noiseless  steps.  Three  doors  opened  on  the 
ante-room ;  two  were  closed,  but  the  third,  the  one 
opposite  the  staircase,  was  partly  open — a  pale  ray 
of  light  issued  from  it. 

*  I  wish  to  see  the  corpse,'  said  Carmela  abruptly, 
looking  at  the  door. 

The  waiter  rubbed  his  eyes  and  said  : 

*  Are  you  a  relation  ?' 

*  I  am — a  pensioner,'  she  answered,  struggling  to 
repress  the  sobs  which  shook  her  from  head  to  foot. 

*  No  relations  have  come  yet.  Some  friends,  but 
they  went  away  immediately.  We  expect  the  pretore. 
Go  in.' 

Carmela  entered  alone.  The  room  was  the  largest 
in  the  hotel,  and  occupied  an  angle  of  the  building, 
having  one  balcony  on  Via  Molo  and  one  on  Via 
Porto.  Coarse  lace  curtains,  which  had  been  white, 
but  were  now  yellow  with  dust  and  time,  were  nailed 
closely  over  the  windows,  and  curtains  exactly  like 
them,  even  to  the  marks  of  smoke  and  dirt,  hung 
from  the  cornice.  A  faded  carpet,  worn  thin,  covered 
the  floor  ;  an  old-fashioned  toilet  with  a  dim  greenish 
mirror,  a  bureau  with  a  marble  top,  a  writing-table, 
and  four  Vienna  chairs  completed  the  furniture  of 
the  room,  at  once  dirty  and  pretentious,  which  had 
been  the  theatre  of  so  many  adventures.     An  enor- 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  133 

mous  bed  stood  at  the  end  of  the  room  facing  the 
door,  beneath  a  baldachin  of  green  serge.  On  the 
bed,  where  he  had  killed  himself,  lay  the  body  of 
Ferdinando  Terzi  di  Torregrande,  awaiting  the  official 
visit  of  the  pretore. 

The  bed  had  not  been  made  up — a  coverlet  of 
green  serge  had  been  spread  over  the  mattress ; 
sheets  there  were  none,  but  the  pillows  were  in  their 
white  under-covers,  edged  with  crochet  lace.  The 
green  serge  coverlet  was  stained  with  blood,  and  the 
carpet  at  the  side  of  the  bed  where  the  Count  had 
killed  himself  was  soaked  with  it ;  the  shirt-front  was 
dyed  deep  red.  Ferdinando  had  been  in  full  evening 
dress  when  he  had  killed  himself,  and  an  exquisite, 
stainless  gardenia  was  still  in  his  buttonhole.  His 
furred  paletot  lay  on  a  chair  at  a  distance.  The  right 
hand,  with  which  he  had  shot  himself  straight  through 
the  heart,  had  fallen  by  his  side,  and  now  lay  on 
the  bed,  still  holding  a  small  silver  revolver,  finely 
chiselled,  and  somewhat  tarnished ;  the  left  hand 
clutched  the  coat  over  the  heart,  and  the  fingers  and 
back  of  this  hand  were  bathed  in  blood.  But  with 
this  exception  there  was  no  sign  of  pain — nothing  in 
the  least  distressing  in  the  aspect  of  the  body,  which 
was  stretched  out  at  full  length  in  an  easy  attitude 
of  repose,  as  if  awaiting  sleep.  The  head  of  the 
corpse  rested  calmly  on  two  pillows,  which  were 
quite  unruffled ;  the  composed  tranquillity,  now  the 
dominant  expression  of  the  face,  had  evidently  pre- 


134  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

ceded  death.  The  beautiful,  blond,  chestnut  hair, 
parted  in  the  centre  in  the  Russian  fashion,  was 
smooth  and  undisturbed;  the  exquisite  mouth  showed 
its  finely  chiselled  red  line  under  the  silky  blond 
moustache;  the  pure,  austerely  perfect  profile  stood 
out  in  undiminished  beauty;  the  round,  firm  chin 
was  as  sternly  resolute  as  ever.  The  lids  were 
lowered  over  the  large  blue  eyes ;  the  metallic  light, 
the  keen  glance,  now  indifferent,  now  proud,  now 
contemptuous,  was  extinguished.  And  notwith- 
standing the  degraded  aspect  of  the  Pension  Suisse 
and  the  low,  ignoble  room — notwithstanding  the 
bloodstains  on  the  breast  and  hand  of  the  dead,  and 
on  the  bed  and  carpet — notwithstanding  the  hoirible 
manner  of  his  death,  the  dead  man  still  preserved 
the  noble  beauty  which  had  come  to  him  from  the 
hand  of  his  Maker,  the  result  of  race  and  education 
and  taste  and  surroundings,  and  which  neither  his 
sins  nor  his  tragic  end  could  do  away  with.  On  the 
contrary,  death  had  given  an  added  charm  to  the 
noble  countenance — something  purer,  more  simple, 
more  youthful,  the  origina  Inoble  beauty,  before  the 
world  soiled  it. 

Standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  resting  her 
clasped  hands  on  the  footboard,  Carmela  gazed  long 
at  the  dead  man.  She  had  sought  him  far  and  wide 
that  night,  rushing  madly  through  Naples  to  the 
grandest  hotels,  and  she  had  found  him  finally,  alone, 
in  this  wretched  tavern,  unwept,  unwatched,  save  for 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  135 

the  dozing  waiter  in  the  hall.  Now  she  could  gaze 
her  fill  upon  him,  solace  her  tearless,  burning  eyes, 
while  she  clasped  her  hands  over  her  heavily  beating 
heart. 

She  had  found  him.  Ferdinando  Terzi's  mother 
was  not  there  yet.  Ever  since  her  widowhood  she 
had  lived  at  her  castle  in  Puglia.  His  married  sister, 
the  Marchesa  di  Vallicella,  was  not  there  either ;  no 
one  had  dared  to  tell  her  as  yet.  And  the  dark  and 
brilliant  Marchesa  di  Miradais,  his  love,  was  absent 
also,  still  ignorant  of  her  loss.  Only  Carmela  was 
there,  and  she  contemplated  Ferdinando  Terzi  as  she 
had  never  dared  to  do  in  his  lifetime,  devouring  with 
her  eyes  the  face  which  death  had  rendered  more 
noble  and  beautiful  than  ever.  The  magnificent 
eyes  were  closed  for  ever,  but  she  knew  their  glance 
so  well  that  she  had  but  to  imagine  them  open  and 
fixed  on  a  distant  point  of  vision,  and  the  face  before 
her  was  alive  once  more,  only  even  more  beautiful 
than  in  life. 

The  door  opened,  and  several  persons  entered  ; 
but  before  they  had  a  chance  of  seeing  her,  Car- 
mela glided  behind  the  curtains  which  hung  loose 
before  the  windows,  as  probably  the  dead  man  him- 
self had  arranged  them,  in  order  to  protect  himself 
from  the  curiosity  of  the  neighbourhood.  The 
persons  who  had  come  in  were  the  pYdore^  with  his 
clerk,  the  landlord,  the  head  waiter,  the  Duke  of 
Sanframondi,  and  Count  Althan.     From  the  hiding- 


136  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

place  where  she  stood,  holding  her  breath,  Carmela 
saw  and  heard  the  gloomy  formalities  which  accom- 
pany a  death  by  suicide.  The^r^^or^,  evidently  in- 
tensely annoyed  at  having  been  obliged  to  come  out 
in  the  bitter  cold  at  that  late  hour,  threw  himself 
puffing  and  panting  into  the  only  easy-chair  the  room 
afforded.  Though  only  thirty  years  old,  he  was 
already  fat  and  heavy,  and  the  rickety  chair  creaked 
and  groaned  beneath  his  weight.  The  pretore's 
clerk,  a  small,  thin  man,  with  eyes  reddened  by  want 
of  sleep,  shivered  in  the  cold  night  air,  and  kept  his 
shabby  coat-collar  turned  up  as  he  sat  down  to  write. 
And  the  following  deposition  was  taken  : 

*The  two  gentlemen  here  present,  Duke  Leopold 
Caracciolo  Rossi  di  Sanframondi  and  Count  Francisco 
Federici  di  Althan,  personal  friends  of  the  deceased, 
declare  and  swear  that  the  person  who  has  com- 
mitted suicide  is  none  other  than  Count  Ferdinando 
Terzi  di  Torregrande,  eldest  son  of  the  late  Count 
Giovanni  Terzi  di  Torregrande  and  of  Donna  Maria 
Angela  di  la  Puiserage.  They  also  recognise  his 
clothes,  his  jewels,  his  furred  paletot,  and  the  revolver 
with  which  he  has  killed  himself. 

*  The  director  of  the  Pension  Suisse  declares  and 
swears  that  the  aforenamed  Count  Ferdinando  Terzi 
di  Torregrande  presented  himself  at  the  hotel  at 
seven  o'clock  this  evening,  and  engaged  a  rocsm 
in  which  to  pass  the  night.  Seeing  that  he  was 
a  person  of  distinction,   Raffaele  Scarano,   director 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  137 

of  the  aforesaid  Pension  Suisse,  did  not  ask  him 
his  name  or  place  of  residence,  nor  why  he  was 
without  luggage.  He  did  not  know  the  gentleman's 
name  until  later,  after  the  suicide.  Count  Ferdi- 
nando  Terzi  paid  the  price  of  the  room — the  best  in 
the  Pension  Suisse — four  francs  and  a  half,  and  did 
not  accept  the  change  for  the  five  francs  he  offered 
in  payment,  and  said  that  he  would  return  to  the 
hotel  a  little  later.  The  above-named  gentleman 
never  before  came  to  the  Pension  Suisse. 

'The  waiter  at  the  Pension  Suisse,  Domenico 
Quagliolo,  declares  and  swears  that  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Count  Ferdinando  Terzi  when  he  was 
engaging  the  room  and  talking  with  the  director, 
but  did  not  look  closely  at  the  Count,  being  accus- 
tomed to  look  as  little  as  possible  at  the  travellers 
who  stopped  in  the  hotel,  in  order  not  to  annoy 
them.  Later,  at  about  nine  o'clock,  the  Count 
returned  to  the  hotel  alone.  The  landlord  being 
away  in  another  part  of  the  hotel,  the  Count  asked 
Domenico  Quagliolo  to  show  him  his  room.  As  he 
entered  it,  he  stopped  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold. 
The  waiter  immediately  told  him  that  there  were  no 
sheets  on  the  bed,  but  that  it  could  be  made  up  in 
a  moment.  The  Count  answered  that  it  did  not 
matter  for  the  moment,  because  he  might  perhaps 
go  out  again.  He  was  perfectly  calm,  and  lighted  a 
cigarette.  He  then  dismissed  the  waiter,  saying 
that  he  would  call  him  later.     The  door  was  shut. 


138  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

but  not  locked.  The  waiter  heard  the  Count  moving 
about  the  room,  but  quite  quietly.  Perhaps  half  an 
hour  had  passed  when  Quagliolo  heard  the  noise  of 
the  revolver,  and  rushed  into  the  room.  Count 
Ferdinando  Terzi  lay  gasping  on  the  bed.  He  did 
not  say  a  word,  but  opened  and  shut  his  eyes,  and 
looked  round  as  if  seeking  for  something.  Quagliolo 
insisted  upon  this  fact.  The  Count  died  instantly, 
in  Quagliolo's  arms ;  one  of  his  sleeves  was  still  wet 
with  blood.  The  landlord  rushed  in  at  once,  with 
two  commercial  travellers  who  were  staying  in  the 
house  and  the  porter,  and  sent  for  Dr.  Gaetano 
Marotta,  who  came  instantly  from  the  pharmacy 
Cirro  in  Via  Porta.  The  doctor  found  the  Count 
already  dead,  and  wrote  the  necessary  certificate. 
On  the  night-table  by  the  bed  had  been  found  a 
card  on  which  was  engraved,  "  Count  Ferdinando 
Terzi  di  Torregrande."  On  this  card  was  written 
in  pencil,  "  I  kill  myself  because  I  choose  to  do  so," 
with  his  signature.  The  death  had  been  immediately 
announced  at  San  Carlo  at  the  box  belonging  to 
the  National  Club,  where,  it  was  supposed,  some 
friends  or  relations  of  the  deceased  might  probably 
be  found.' 

This  affair  of  official  declaration  lasted  at  least  an 
hour ;  the  pretore,  after  he  had  received  the  sworn 
depositions,  dictated  them  to  the  clerk.  The  two 
gentlemen  stood  silently  by,  evidently  deeply  moved 
and  distressed  by  the  death  of  their  friend,  but  also 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  139 

as  evidently  profoundly  annoyed  to  be  mixed  up  in 
the  matter  of  the  official  declaration.  When  the 
pretore  asked  them  a  passing  question  as  to  the 
cause  of  the  suicide,  they  avoided  a  direct  reply  and 
made  a  vague  sign,  evading  all  closer  inquiry.  He 
felt  a  certain  respect  for  their  distress,  and  did  not 
insist  further.  Besides,  the  fact  of  suicide  was 
clearly  proven  ;  the  doctor's  certificate  was  correct 
and  legal ;  and  the  pretore  well  knew  that  Raffaele 
Scarano  and  Domenico  Quagliolo,  landlord  and 
waiter  of  the  Pension  Suisse,  had  but  too  much 
reason  to  fear  justice  for  private  reasons  of  their  own, 
and  were  therefore  sure  to  have  told  the  truth  on 
this  occasion,  when  they  happened  to  be  innocent. 
He  therefore  hurried  the  writing  of  the  declaration 
as  much  as  he  could.  He  was  dropping  with  sleep, 
and  dying  of  cold ;  his  poor  clerk's  teeth  were  chatter- 
ing ;  the  landlord  and  waiter  were  restless,  mortally 
worried  by  the  event,  which  would  long  cast  a  sinister 
shadow  on  the  ill-reputed  Pension  Suisse.  The  dead 
man  alone,  lying  quietly  on  the  bed  wet  with  his 
blood,  was  unmoved  by  the  emotions  to  which  his 
death  had  given  rise.  He  had  entered  into  the  in- 
finite repose  by  his  own  hand,  and  for  some  profound, 
unknown  reason.  He  was  untroubled,  but  behind 
the  curtains  a  human  being  suffered  and  panted,  with 
the  impatience  of  desperation. 

At  last  all  the  formalities  were  concluded.     The 
pretore  and  his  clerk  left  the  room,  accompanied  by 


I40  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

the  landlord  and  waiter,  who  were  heard  entreating 
and  imploring  them  to  do  something.  The  Duke  of 
Sanframondi  and  Althan  remained  in  the  room,  talk- 
ing together  in  a  low  tone,  and  looking  at  the  dead 
body  from  time  to  time ;  the  most  prudent  thing, 
they  thought,  was  to  leave  it  there,  in  order  not  to 
make  a  tumult  at  Casa  Terzi  in  the  middle  of  the 
night.  In  the  early  morning  Sanframondi  would 
take  charge  of  the  transportation  of  the  body  to  Casa 
Terzi,  and  Althan  would  inform  the  Marchesa  di 
Vallicella. 

Religious  functions  were  not  to  be  thought  of  at 
that  hour,  in  that  place ;  they  would  attend  to  all 
that  in  the  morning.  They  spoke  low,  in  broken 
phrases,  alluded  in  vague  terms  to  a  potent  cause  for 
the  suicide.  Yes,  there  remained  nothing  for  their  poor 
friend  to  do  but  kill  himself.  And  they  went  away 
themselves,  giving  fifty  francs  to  Raffaele  Scarano 
for  whatever  might  be  necessary,  and  five  to  the 
waiter,  begging  him  to  watch  through  the  night. 
After  another  glance  at  the  body,  they  retired  on 
tip-toe. 

The  landlord  confided  the  care  of  the  body  to  the 
waiter  and  left  the  room,  grumbling  at  his  ill-luck, 
notwithstanding  the  fifty  francs.  Who  would  ever 
take  the  room  now  that  a  man  had  killed  himself 
there  ?  The  journals  would  talk  of  it ;  he  was 
ruined. 

With  a  great  sigh  of  relief,  Carmela  issued  from 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  141 

her  place   of  concealment.     The   waiter,   who   had 
forgotten  her,  looked  at  her  with  surprise. 

*  Go  and  sleep  ;  I  will  watch  with  him,'  she  com- 
manded, pointing  to  the  door. 

'  But— but ' 

*  There  are  five  francs.  Stay  in  the  next  room, 
but  don't  come  in.' 

*  You — certainly  could  not  be  anyone  he  loved  V 
he  said,  looking  at  her  from  head  to  foot,  and  evi- 
dently comparing  her — so  plain,  so  poorly  dressed — 
with  the  dead  man,  supreme  in  beauty  and  elegance 
even  in  death. 

*  No,  I  could  not  be  anyone  he  would  love,'  she 
answered  in  a  strange  tone.     '  Go  away,  therefore.' 

He  went  away  unwillingly.  She  closed  the  door, 
but  did  not  lock  it.  At  last — at  last  she  was  alone 
with  the  dead !  No  one  would  come  until  the  morn- 
ing ;  the  dead  man  was  hers.  From  behind  the 
curtains  she  had  heard  everything,  while  she  was 
dying  with  impatience ;  neither  Sanframondi,  nor 
Althan,  nor  any  of  his  friends  would  come  before 
morning.  The  physician  and  pretore  had  done  what 
they  had  to  do,  and  were  gone;  the  landlord  and 
waiter  had  also  disappeared.  The  dead  man  was 
hers  for  one  whole  night,  in  a  remote,  unknown 
room.  She  looked  at  him  with  intense  reverence 
and  pity,  and  moved  softly  across  the  room  to  take 
two  candles,  which  she  lighted  and  placed  on  the 
night-table  close  by  the  corpse.     In  order  to  do  this 


142  THE  BALLET  DANCER 

she  was  obliged  to  approach  it  very  closely,  and  she 
gazed  at  it  as  if  fascinated  by  this  spectacle  of 
funereal  beauty  lying  bathed  in  blood. 

Mechanically  she  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket ;  she 
found  her  rosary,  and,  taking  it  out,  she  kissed  the 
medal  and  crucifix  attached  to  it.  Cautiously,  and 
with  infinite  delicacy  and  gentleness,  she  wound  the 
rosary  round  the  hand  which  clutched  the  dead  heart 
of  Ferdinando  Terzi,  allowing  the  crucifix  and  medal 
to  rest  upon  his  breast.  In  order  to  do  this,  she  had 
not  only  been  obliged  to  approach  the  corpse  very 
nearly,  but  also  to  bend  over  it  and  to  touch  the 
frozen  hand.  Twice  she  started  back,  as  if  about  to 
faint.  But  that  pale  face  fascinated  her ;  she  looked 
round.  She  was  alone.  The  night  was  far  advanced ; 
the  silence  was  profound  ;  and  slowly  she  bent  over 
the  dead  man,  and  pressed  her  lips,  ever  so  lightly 
and  softly,  on  the  cold,  proud  brow. 

The  icy  touch  dissolved  the  horrible  tension  which 
bound  her  heart  and  throat,  and  Carmela  fell  on  the 
ground,  on  her  knees,  near  the  bed  and  on  the  blood- 
stained carpet,  weeping,  sobbing,  and  calling  on  the 
dead: 

*Oh,  my  love! — oh,  my  only  love,  my  beautiful 
love! — you  are  dead,  you  are  dead,  and  I  live! 
Oh,  beautiful  one ! — oh,  my  heart  of  hearts  ! — it  is 
only  dead  that  I  could  kiss  you  !  Who  would  ever 
have  told  me — who — who — that  I  should  see  you 
dead  ?     Oh,  my  love !  why  do   I   live  ?     I !    Why 


THE  BALLET  DANCER  143 

does   anyone    live   on    this   earth   where   you   have 
died  ?' 

So,  in  the  cold  winter  night,  began  the  funeral 
dirge  of  Ferdinando  Terzi,  Count  of  Torregrande, 
in  the  lurid,  blood-stained  room  of  the  Pension 
Suisse ;  and  she  who  wailed  and  lamented  his  fate, 
with  tears  and  sobs,  and  broken  words  of  love  and 
sorrow,  was  only  Carmela  Minino,  a  third -rank 
ballet-dancer  at  San  Carlo. 


ON    GUARD 


10 


That  brilliant,  warm  afternoon  the  Naples  land- 
scape had  been  sleeping  a  long  time,  deserted,  silent, 
and  motionless  under  the  lion-like  August  sun.  In 
the  long  siesta,  from  mid-day  till  four  o'clock,  not 
the  shadow  of  a  man  had  been  seen,  going  or  coming, 
on  the  great  green  plain  of  Bagnoli  or  on  the  broad 
white  road  to  the  left  that  comes  from  Posilipo, 
grazing  the  lowest  slope  of  the  hill,  which  forms  a 
cape  also — a  wide  road  that  is  the  joy  of  all  who 
love  Naples,  both  foreigners  and  natives  of  the  place. 
There  was  not  a  cart  or  carriage  on  the  straight 
road  called  Fuorigrotta,  which  takes  its  first  angle  at 
Bagnoli,  turning  to  go  to  Pozzuoli,  Cuma,  and  Baia ; 
there  was  not  a  ship  going  past  Posilipo's  lovely  cape 
on  its  far-off  journey  over  the  sea — a  black  thread- 
like line,  with  a  pretty  feather  of  smoke  over  it ;  no 
white  sail  in  the  Procida  strait,  nor  boat  hovering 
around  Nisida's  green  island,  the  whole  length  of 
which  can  be  seen  from  the  gentle  shore  at  Bagnoli. 
At  the  time  of  the  siesta  the  sea-bathing  establish- 
ment on  the  shore  was  deserted,  showing  empty 
cabins  through  the  doors  and  shutters  thrown  wide 
open  to  the  west  wind.     The  Bagnoli  inn,  a  resort 

10 — 2 


148  ON  GUARD 

of  pleasure-seekers,  duellists,  and  lovers,  had  thrown 
open  all  its  windows  and  doors  to  the  terraces.  Not 
a  song  came  up — not  a  cry  or  sound.  Even  the 
sea  seemed  struck  motionless  with  the  great  slumber 
of  men  and  things,  except  that  the  west  wind  had 
been  blowing  for  a  time  from  the  sea  on  to  the 
land,  raising  up  whirlwinds  of  dust  on  the  Posilipo 
road  and  Fuorigrotta,  bending  over  and  raising  the 
scattered  poppies  on  the  green  coast,  making  little 
spirals  of  brown  sand  twirl  at  the  water-edge  and 
the  Venetians  on  the  white  houses  flutter,  taking  the 
leaves  off  the  passion-flower  creeper  on  the  balcony 
lattice  in  the  Bagnoli  inn.  But  the  west  wind,  as  is 
well  known,  serves  with  its  rustling  to  rock  to  sleep 
the  drowsy  Neapolitan  landscape.  It  is  a  chant 
that  soothes  the  sleep  of  people,  houses,  and  trees. 

But  the  afternoon  was  fading  into  the  long  summer 
twilight,  spreading  a  great  calmness  around.  A 
sailor's  wife,  tall,  thin  and  dark,  with  bronze- 
coloured  legs  and  bare  feet,  came  out  of  the  bathing- 
place  and  began  to  gather  the  sheets  drying  in  the 
sun  from  the  poles  they  hung  from.  She  wore  a 
wide,  often  wetted,  broken-in  straw  hat,  trimmed 
with  red  ribbon,  and  she  sang  joyously.  Every  now 
and  then,  as  she  went  on  gathering  a  heap  of  sheets, 
under  which  her  lengthy  form  disappeared,  she 
looked  towards  Carrano  villa,  as  if  she  was  expecting 
someone.  Indeed,  a  crowd  of  little  boys  and  girls 
came  out  of  the  villa — lovely  little  English  children, 


ON  GUARD  149 

escorted  by  a  governess  and  maid — who  were  laden 
with  bags,  food,  and  baskets. 

The  bathing-woman  stood  still,  shading  her  eyes 
with  her  hand,  having  thrown  the  whole  weight  of 
the  sheets  on  to  one  shoulder.  The  babies,  when 
they  reached  her,  rushed  round  her,  jumping  on  the 
wooden  platform,  making  their  pretty  light  hair  that 
hung  over  their  shoulders  dance,  and  kicking  their 
legs  about,  in  spite  of  the  governess's  reproofs  in 
English.  The  bathing-woman  laughed  with  her 
wide  mouth,  showing  strong  teeth  all  streaked  with 
black.  Three  or  four  cabins  were  shut,  and  after 
ten  minutes  the  whole  tribe  of  boys  and  girls  went 
off  swimming  boldly  between  the  gentle  Bagnoli 
shore  and  Nisida  island,  puffing,  crying  out  in  queer 
guttural  tones,  and  holding  out  their  hands  for  the 
bathing-woman  to  throw  them  cakes  from  the  top  of 
the  wooden  platform.  The  whole  shore  seemed  to 
laugh  with  the  bathing-woman  and  children. 

From  the  Fuorigrotta  road  a  cart  was  coming  up, 
going  straight  towards  Pozzuoli — a  gardener's  cart, 
empty;  all  the  tomatoes  and  green-stuffs  had  been 
sold  in  Naples  that  he  came  in  loaded  with  in  the 
morning.  Then  came  vintners'  carts  with  empty 
casks  that  had  put  down  their  load  of  Monte  di 
Procida  wine  in  the  town.  The  carters,  seated  on 
narrow  boards  outside  the  carts,  with  legs  hanging 
down  and  jacket  thrown  over  one  shoulder,  went 
trotting  along,  the  empty  carts  jumping  up  and  down 


ISO  ON  GUARD 

to  the  lively  whistle  of  their  song,  which  kept  time 
to  the  quick  trot.  A  long  narrow  cart  passed,  too, 
with  round-bellied  jars  of  earthenware,  closed  by  a 
cork  bung,  the  Naples  mammere,  still  wet  and  sharply 
scented  with  the  mineral  water  they  had  taken  into 
the  town.  The  carter  was  in  white  Hnen  shirt  and 
breeches,  bare-legged,  with  a  long,  dull-coloured  cap 
and  a  short  sailor's  pipe  in  his  mouth. 

Some  vehicles  were  coming  along  on  the  Posilipo 
road  also ;  but  these  were  cabs  laden  with  country 
folk  come  to  Naples  for  sea-bathing.  They  carefully 
went  to  see  the  neighbourhood,  though  they  got  no 
pleasure  out  of  it ;  but  they  wished  to  be  taken  for 
foreigners.  The  cabman  stopped  at  the  shore,  ex- 
plaining that  that  was  the  Bagnoli  parade-ground, 
where  the  soldiers  came  in  the  morning,  at  sunrise, 
to  drill,  and  that  the  island  was  called  Nisida, 
Niseta. 

*  Very  fine,  very  fine  !'  the  country  folk  exclaimed, 
looking  at  the  green  island,  lightly  mirrored  in  the 
sea,  which  had  already  become  lead-coloured. 

The  cabman  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  drove 
on,  turning  by  the  Fuorigrotta  road,  and  taking  his 
fare  under  the  grotto.  Or  there  was  some  private 
carriage  appearing  on  the  Posilipo  road,  conveying 
a  pretty  fashionable  lady  who  had  stayed  at  Naples 
by  arrangement,  out  of  sulkiness,  or  for  caprice, 
giving  up  the  joys  of  summer  travel.  The  coachman 
went  along  slowly,  and  the  great  white  parasol  lined 


ON  GUARD  151 

with  red  encircled  with  its  aureole  a  thoughtful 
head.  This  carriage  also  stood  by  the  shore,  to  gaze 
at  the  lovely  island  Nisida,  and  while  it  went  slowly 
on  its  way  towards  Fuorigrotta,  returning  to  town, 
the  lady  puzzled  over  what  that  shiny,  very  luminous 
point  was  that  her  good  eyes  had  discovered  amidst 
the  green  on  the  top  of  Nisida  island. 

All  the  inn-windows  now  were  thrown  wide  open 
towards  the  sea,  on  to  the  Bagnoli  plain  and  Fuori- 
grotta road.  On  the  large  covered  terrace  of  lattice- 
work, with  passion-flower  creepers  climbing  over  it, 
two  very  countrified  waiters,  still  sleepy -headed, 
drew  out  rough  tables  with  black  painted  legs,  and 
spread  cloths  over  them,  putting  salt-cellars  in  the 
middle,  and  placing  tumblers  of  thick  greenish  glass 
upside  down.  At  one  window  two  people  were 
looking  out  at  the  sea :  a  fair  young  woman,  colour- 
less and  delicate-looking,  dressed  in  a  very  plain 
dark-blue  linen  frock,  and  a  man  about  forty,  a 
handsome,  thoughtful  fellow.  Twice  the  lady  had 
bent  towards  him,  asking  him  something  with  a 
smile,  lightly  leaning  her  hand  on  his  arm.  He 
seemed  to  answer  vaguely,  and  be  thinking  of  some- 
thing else.  The  lady  left  him  at  the  window  without 
his  making  any  remark,  and  came  on  to  the  terrace 
to  look  at  the  English  children  who  were  shrieking 
cheerfully  in  the  water.  She  stripped  a  large  passion- 
flower from  the  lattice-work,  and  tore  off  its  petals 
with  her  teeth ;  then,  as  if  fascinated,  she  came  back 


152  ON  GUARD 

to  the  man  at  the  window,  spoke  to  him  in  a  whisper, 
pointing  out  Nisida  island  lingeringly;  and  he 
listened,  shaking  his  head,  smiling  a  little,  as  if 
agreeing  to  a  queer  story  telling  about  a  dream. 

The  sea,  too,  in  the  soft  summer  twilight,  seemed 
to  have  wakened  from  the  drowsiness  of  its  mid-day 
siesta.  Near  the  shore  the  voices  of  children  bathing 
rose  shrilly,  as  they  went  splashing  and  laughing, 
and  the  bathing- woman,  standing  towards  the  shore, 
called  out  at  large:  *Aniello!  Aniello!'  Now  three 
fishing-boats  had  passed  the  Procida  strait  and  were 
coming  towards  Pozzuoli,  following  each  other,  run- 
ning off  under  the  rising  breeze.  One  could  not  see 
the  continuous  movement  of  letting  down  the  sciabica 
into  the  sea,  the  great  net  of  these  large  boats, 
which  are  held  by  sailors  and  fishermen  in  partner- 
ship. 

Suddenly,  behind  two  washerwomen  who  were 
coming  back  from  Naples  by  Fuorigrotta  road,  bearing 
great  bundles  of  linen  on  their  heads,  the  dull  trot  of 
a  horse  was  heard  lifting  its  feet  in  cadence ;  it  came 
from  Naples  also,  by  the  straight,  dusty  road.  It 
was  a  very  dark,  long  carriage,  entirely  closed  in ; 
not  at  all  like  the  royal  post-ofiice  van,  with  its 
little  coup6  in  front,  nor  the  van  sick  soldiers  are 
taken  about  in ;  it  was  quite  a  black  one,  all  shut  in, 
with  wooden  windows  high  up,  like  the  municipal 
van  that  takes  the  dead  to  the  burial-ground  in  times 
of  epidemics,  one  which  good  Naples  folk  never  see 


ON  GUARD  153 

passing,  day  or  night,  without  crossing  themselves 
and  saying  a  prayer  in  a  whisper  or  muttering  a 
charm. 

But  it  was  not  the  dead  folk's  van.  The  waggon 
passed  quickly  under  the  Carrano  villa  and  Bagnoli 
inn.  An  old  English  single  lady  who  was  reading 
at  the  villa  door,  waiting  for  her  nephews  and  nieces 
to  come  back  from  the  bathing,  put  her  eyeglasses 
more  steadily  on  her  nose  to  see  the  black  carriage 
better ;  the  little  fair  woman  at  the  window  drew  back 
as  if  alarmed.  But  curiosity  carried  it ;  she  leant 
out  again  to  follow  the  dull  vehicle  with  her  eyes, 
first  threading  her  arm  through  her  lover's,  as  if 
needing  protection.  It  went  past  the  little  bathing- 
stand,  where  the  woman  was  now  sweeping  the 
wooden  path  in  front  of  the  cabins ;  but  astonish- 
ment made  her  stand  motionless,  with  the  thick 
handle  of  the  broom  in  her  hands.  The  children 
lying  down  in  their  knitted  bathing-suits  on  the 
warm  sands  rose  up,  surprised.  The  black  van  had 
stopped  on  the  sands  at  a  little  distance  from  them ; 
the  back-door,  its  only  one,  was  opened,  and  first 
one  man  of  the  military  police  and  then  another 
got  down  from  it,  and  a  third  red  plume  could  be 
seen  in  the  dull  half-light  of  the  van. 

Patiently  the  carabineers  waited,  standing  on  the 
sand ;  they  cautiously  glanced  now  and  then  towards 
Nisida.  One  of  them,  the  head  man,  leant  towards 
the  still  open  door  to  talk  with  those  yet  inside  the 


154  ON  GUARD 

van.  He  parleyed  for  two  or  three  minutes,  with 
his  head  lowered  into  the  black  opening  ;  then 
went  a  little  way  off.  Another  policeman  got 
down,  and  finally  a  man  came  out,  a  young  fellow, 
in  one  single  leap,  without  touching  the  step, 
and  stood  straight,  motionless,  and  silent  between 
the  military  police,  who  formed  a  close  triangle 
round  him.  From  Carrano  villa,  the  inn,  Posilipo 
and  Fuorigrotta  roads  and  the  bathing-place  every- 
one was  gazing  intently.  Suddenly,  when  the  man 
appeared,  there  came  a  great  hush  around,  and 
a  mortal  pallor  took  the  colour  out  of  all  things 
Gin  land  and  sea,  as  if  the  wide  landscape  and  its 
inhabitants  had  been  overcome  by  a  deep  shudder 
of  emotion. 

He  was  a  young  fellow  of  twenty-five,  tall,  strong- 
built,  with  rather  round  shoulders ;  his  face  was  very 
colourless,  with  a  fixed,  opaque,  milky  whiteness, 
the  delicate  complexion  that  red-haired  men  have ; 
and  in  the  colourless  face  with  not  a  hair  on  the 
pure  skin,  blotched  only  by  some  rare  freckles,  he 
had  a  pair  of  blue  eyes  of  a  tender  azure — great, 
serene,  almost  candid  eyes,  like  an  innocent  child's. 
Clad  in  old  greenish  trousers,  all  stained  and  ravelled 
at  the  edges,  in  an  old  maroon  jacket,  through  which 
one  could  see  the  white  shirt,  for  he  had.  no  waist- 
coat, with  a  black  greasy  cap  that  let  the  red  tawny 
mane  be  seen,  he  stood  quietly  in  that  mean  garb 
of  wretchedness  and  breathed  up  strongly  the  sea- 


ON  GUARD  155 

breezes,  as  if  he  was  happy  to  get  that  air.  Only  his 
hands  were  chained,  not,  indeed,  with  handcuffs, 
which  the  pohce  call  in  their  slang  castagnoli,  the 
sort  that  press  the  thumbs  together,  nor  the  common 
sort  that  fasten  the  wrists  tight ;  they  were  chained 
by  a  real  proper  chain  that  went  twice  round  the 
wrists,  and  was  shut  by  a  heavy  padlock,  a  kind  of 
doleful  prison  locket. 

The  eyes  of  all  looking  on  this  scene — old  men  and 
children,  women  and  lads — invariably  turned  to  that 
chain.  Still  he  did  not  seem  to  mind  it ;  he  did  not 
look  at  his  hands  or  try  to  raise  them ;  he  kept 
quiet,  giving  himself  up  evidently  to  the  pleasure  of 
breathing,  for  he  had  come  from  a  close  and  suffoca- 
ting stone  prison.  If  that  chain  had  not  been  there, 
perhaps  the  people  round  would  not  have  looked  at 
him  long,  but  that  twist  of  iron,  strongly  soldered, 
that  went  round  his  wrists,  attracted  them  all.  He 
might  have  been  a  man  like  everyone  else,  free,  con- 
tented, come  there  on  some  prison  business  with  the 
police ;  he  might  have  been  a  clerk,  a  time-expired  man, 
a  witness,  or  a  relation  of  someone  living  over  there. 

But  the  chain  that  bound  him  in  its  invincible 
iron  ring  was  his  description,  his  name,  and  story 
— the  chain  is  the  sentence  and  the  word  that  ex- 
presses the  mystery.  It  did  not  matter  his  being 
young,  strong,  with  a  colourless,  refined  face,  and 
blue  eyes  like  a  child's  that  knows  no  evil ;  that  he 
stood  quietly  without  looking  at  anyone  or  challeng- 


156  ON  GUARD 

ing  them,  overcome  by  the  mildness  of  the  landscape; 
his  simple,  peaceful  aspect  did  not  serve  him,  as  he 
glanced  now  and  then  at  Nisida  island  with  innocent 
curiosity.  It  did  him  no  good,  for  that  chain  was 
the  fierce  bloody  tragedy;  it  told  everyone  that 
he  was  a  harmful,  evil  being,  condemned  by  man's 
justice  and  by  the  law. 

The  chain — the  chain  !  It  was  that  that  made  the 
children's  laughter,  the  bathing- woman's  hoarse  voice, 
the  fishermen's  lively  cries  to  each  other,  the  fair 
lady  at  the  window's  loving  speeches,  the  cabmen's 
lively  cracking  of  their  whips  as  they  came  along  to 
Pozzuoli,  the  songs  of  the  carters  going  at  a  foot 
pace,  all  sink  into  silence.  The  chain  !  It  weighed 
on  everyone,  that  relentless  chain  that  kept  the  man 
motionless ;  he  was  a  thief — a  murderer,  perhaps. 
The  whole  green  flowery  countryside  around,  the 
lovely  deep  brilliant  sea  that  surrounds  Nisida  like 
a  poetic  lake,  and  the  island  itself  standing  out  of 
the  water  like  a  fresh  green  flowery  grove,  seemed 
from  the  sudden  sadness  that  had  struck  them  to 
suffer  from  the  suffocation  of  that  encircKng  chain ; 
things  seemed  soiled,  deprived  of  their  innocence,  for 
ever,  disturbed  and  corrupted  by  that  apparition  of 
wickedness  and  cruelty,  by  the  shameful  presence  of 
a  murderer. 

But  a  boat  left  the  flowery  island  shore,  and  came 
towards  the  Bagnoli  sands,  rowed  by  two  boatmen 
dressed  in  dull  blue  with  black  caps.     Quietly,  with- 


ON  GUARD  157 

out  saying  a  word,  the  men  bent  on  the  oars  that 
cut  into  the  waves  almost  noiselessly,  and  they 
landed  quickly  with  a  dull  thump.  First  two  of  the 
military  police  got  in,  then  the  prisoner,  with  a  firm 
step  and  careless  air,  then  the  third  policeman. 
Hardly  had  the  boat  left  Bagnoli  shore  when  the 
black  van,  waiting  for  the  embarkation,  turned  round, 
and  quickly  disappeared  by  Fuorigrotta  road  towards 
Naples.  Now  the  boat  with  its  load  was  going 
away  to  Nisida,  going  much  slower,  though  the 
boatmen  bent  lower  over  the  oars ;  it  looked  as  if 
they  found  the  load  very,  very  heavy. 

By  that  fine  sea  sighed  for  by  lovers  and  poets,  the 
joy  of  sailors  and  fishermen,  that  lovely  sea  that  is 
the  delight  of  children  and  poor  folk,  the  condemned 
man's  boat  went  along,  dull  and  silent,  more  so  than 
if  it  had  carried  a  corpse.  The  conscientious  military 
police  seated  round  him  never  lifted  their  eyes  off 
him  for  a  minute,  more  careful  and  zealous  than  ever, 
dreading  that  unsafe  crossing  over  the  sea  in  a  boat,  for 
perhaps  he  might  try  to  throw  himself  into  the  water ; 
they  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes,  as  if  experience 
had  taught  these  simple  soldiers  that  a  man's  most 
secret  inclinations  always  are  shown  by  a  quick  flash 
in  his  eyes. 

But  the  prisoner  decidedly  did  not  think  of  flight ; 
he  kept  his  coolness  on  the  water  as  he  had  done 
when  he  got  down  from  the  van.  Indeed,  he  looked 
round  him  with  some  satisfaction,  as  if  pleased  at 


158  ON  GUARD 

that  sea  voyage  in  the  open  air,  with  the  boat's 
rocking  motion.  He  kept  his  chained  hands  in  his 
lap,  just  as  if  he  had  crossed  them  in  a  natural 
attitude,  only  he  said  nothing,  because  of  the  silence 
of  the  military  police  and  the  prison  boatmen. 
Every  other  boat  that  crosses  that  lovely  sea — 
pleasure  boats,  pink  from  the  flaming  domes  of 
women's  parasols,  or  rough  working  boats — are  full  of 
joyous  voices  of  women,  children,  or  fishermen ;  this 
one  only  was  dull  and  silent,  for  it  bore  in  it  a 
prisoner  and  his  dumb  and  sulky  escort ;  it  was  carry- 
ing off  to  punishment  a  living  tragedy.  '  Here  we 
are,'  said  the  prisoner,  as  if  to  himself.  The  boat 
had  bumped  against  the  island's  little  stone  landing- 
place  ;  the  boatmen  held  it  straight,  keeping  it  tight 
against  a  strong  pile  of  the  pier.  The  escort  got 
down,  still  in  the  same  order  as  they  got  in,  keeping 
the  prisoner  in  the  middle  of  them. 

*  We  will  be  back  in  a  short  time,'  said  the  sergeant 
to  the  head  boatman. 

*  Very  good,'  he  replied.  , 

The  climb  on  to  the  island  began  on  the  broad, 
steep  road  amongst  the  trees — a  great  shady  avenue, 
full  of  birds  singing  at  sunset.  Though  down  there 
at  the  landing-place  it  was  getting  dark  already,  as 
they  continuously  went  up  and  up,  they  still  found 
the  light  of  the  upper  spheres.  The  prisoner  raised 
his  head  ;  all  these  voices  of  Nature  seemed  to  make 
him  tipsy.     The  way  was  long,  for  it  went  up  easily 


ON  GUARD  159 

to  the  highest  point  in  the  island ;  it  took  a  gentle 
slope  like  the  broad  avenue  of  a  park,  as  if  it  was 
leading  up  to  a  castle,  a  seat  of  luxury  and  pleasure. 
Only,  sometimes,  amidst  the  thickets  of  trees  and 
rose-bushes,  something  sparkled;  but  the  prisoner 
did  not  notice  it.  He  was  looking  in  front  of  him, 
delighted  with  that  long  country  walk;  for  he  had 
been  pacing  between  four  stone  walls  lately,  like  an 
animal  in  a  cage.  Only,  all  of  a  sudden,  as  he  went 
along,  almost  without  caring  about  his  escort,  he  heard 
a  slight  motion  amongst  the  trees ;  the  prisoner's  sharp 
ear  caught  it,  and  he  guessed  what  it  would  be.  He 
grew  pale,  knowing  that  it  was  a  sentinel,  understand- 
ing that  the  shimmer  was  on  the  barrel  of  a  musket. 
He  got  deadly  pale,  and  shook  his  head,  as  if  a  happy 
delusion  had  fled.  Perhaps  for  a  minute,  in  spite  of 
the  chain,  in  spite  of  the  escort,  deceived  by  that 
country  walk,  he  had  thought  he  was  free — for  one 
moment.  He  could  keep  up  this  dream  no  longer. 
They  had  come  to  an  enclosure  wall,  to  a  great  iron 
gate,  barricaded  and  guarded  by  a  sentinel.  The 
sergeant  showed  a  paper ;  the  sentinel  put  down  his 
musket,  and  went  to  open  all  the  great  heavy  chains 
of  the  iron  door.  It  fell  open  with  a  metallic  hiss, 
and  shut  heavily  again  behind  prisoner  and  escort. 
Now  they  were  in  a  small  square,  surrounded  by  little 
one-storied  houses,  the  offices  of  the  Royal  Penal 
Prison  of  Nisida.  The  sergeant,  who  was  familiar 
with  the  place,  turned  towards  a  house  in  the  middle 


i6o  ON  GUARD 

that  had  two  stories,  and  went  into  an  office  on  the 
ground  floor.  It  was  sparsely  furnished,  with  two 
desks,  a  couch,  some  chairs,  a  crucifix,  and  the 
King's  portrait.  A  lean,  sickly  clerk,  with  hardly  any 
hair  left,  and  wretchedly  dressed,  was  sitting  writing 
in  a  big  register  before  him. 

*  Is  the  Governor  not  present  ?'  asked  the  sergeant. 

*  He  is  coming  just  now,'  replied  the  clerk.  And 
he  went  on  writing  again  without  even  bestowing  a 
glance  on  the  convict. 

The  Governor  came  in.  He  was  a  man  about 
forty,  strong,  tall,  with  a  good-natured  but  grave 
face.  The  military  police  saluted  him.  He  returned 
the  salute,  gave  a  side-glance  at  the  convict,  and 
went  to  sit  at  the  second  desk.  The  sergeant  gave 
him  the  charge-sheet. 

*  What  is  your  name  ?'  the  Governor  asked  the 
convict,  for  the  purpose  of  identifying  him. 

*  Rocco  Traetta,'  he  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

*  Have  you  any  nickname  ?' 

*  I  am  called  Sciurillo.^ 

'  Where  do  you  come  from  ?' 
'  From  Naples.' 
'  How  old  are  you  ?' 

*  I  am  twenty-six.' 

'  You   are    the    son    of   the    late ?'   said  the 

Governor,  raising  his  head. 

*  Son  of  the  late  Gennaro,'  said  the  convict,  without 
a  tremor. 


ON  GUARD  i6i 

*You  are  convicted  as  a  parricide,'  remarked  the 
Governor,  bending  his  head  a  Httle,  as  if  he  was 
shuddering. 

Rocco  Traetta  did  not  answer  ;  he  was  waiting  for 
another  question.  Meanwhile  the  clerk  had  regis- 
tered the  new  convict. 

'  Is  it  for  life  ?'  the  clerk  asked  the  Governor  in- 
differently. 

*  Yes,  it  is,'  was  the  short  answer. 

'Number  417,  a  red  cap,'  wrote  the  clerk  on  a 
sheet  of  paper. 

The  Governor  rang  a  bell.  A  man  dressed  in 
gray,  with  a  black  cap,  came  forward. 

*  Take  him  to  the  clothing  department,'  the 
Governor  said,  giving  him  a  paper  and  pointing  to 
the  convict. 

Rocco  Traetta  went  out  behind  the  warder;  the 
military  police  stayed  in  the  office.  Now  he  was  alone 
with  the  warder,  but  the  man  was  going  on  in  front, 
reading  the  paper  as  if  he  took  no  interest  in  the 
convict.  They  passed  through  the  prison  streets, 
broad  ones  with  wide  pavements.  There  were  some 
acacia-trees  already  in  flower.  On  each  side  rose 
buildings  of  one  or  two  stories,  not  higher.  The 
windows  were  decorated  with  flowers  behind  the  iron 
gratings.  They  turned  several  street  corners,  the 
warder  still  in  front.  At  last  they  went  into  a  large 
room,  which  was  dark  already ;  a  great  kitchen  fire 
was  burning  at  the  back  of  it,  and  two  smiths  were 

II 


i62  ON  GUARD 

beating  on  an  anvil.  Another  warder  was  sitting  on 
some  sacks.  Rocco  Traetta's  toilet  was  done  in  a 
moment ;  he  got  a  thick  linen  shirt,  trousers,  vest,  and 
jacket  with  a  thread  stripe  of  dark  brick  colour,  and 
a  bright-red  cap,  all  being  stamped  with  the  figures 
417.  To  dress  him  they  took  off  the  chain  from  his 
hands  and  threw  it  in  a  corner.  But  the  soldering 
of  his  convict's  chain  which  was  fixed  round  his 
ankle  was  rather  a  long  business.  Squatted  on  the 
ground,  the  two  smiths  hammered  the  hot  iron  time 
about. 

*  It  is  not  too  tight  ?'  one  of  them  asked  Rocco 
Traetta. 

*  No,  it  is  just  right,'  he  said,  already  feeling  an 
unbearable  weight.  The  chain  was  more  than  a 
yard  long.  *  Am  I  to  be  chained  to  anyone  else  ?' 
he  asked,  pretending  not  to  care. 

*  No,'  replied  the  warder.  *  You  can  hang  the 
chain  from  your  belt.' 

In   fact,  there  was   a   hook   in   the  trouser-belt ; 
still,  even  hung  in  this  way,  the  chain  weighed  a 
great  deal,  and  its  iron  ring,  soldered  round  the  foot, 
gave  a  sharp,  continuous,  intolerable  sensation. 
****** 

When  at  nine  o'clock  the  bugles  went  for  silence, 
it  was  a  profound,  gentle,  starry  night  over  Nisida 
island.  That  crowd  of  convicts  Rocco  Traetta  fell 
in  among  mechanically  had  received  him  with 
invincible   suspicion,  holding  aloof  from   him,   not 


ON  GUARD  163 

answering  the  few  questions  he  asked  them,  looking  at 
him  squintingly ;  some  had  received  him  with  an  icy 
indifference.  The  two  great  instinctive  points  of  that 
crowd  of  guilty  men — the  two  animal,  brutal  points 
— are  just  fear,  a  vague,  indistinct  fear,  of  all  and 
everyone,  and  a  low,  dull,  cruel  selfishness.  He  had 
gone  with  them  to  church,  a  great  bare  chapel  newly 
whitewashed,  where  that  throng  had  sat  down  on 
wooden  forms.  About  half  of  them,  one  may  say, 
were  praying,  some  with  fervid  faith,  raising  the 
voice  occasionally,  as  if  overpowering  emotion  urged 
them  to  it ;  some  with  the  enthusiasm  of  hypocrisy, 
which  could  be  made  out  on  their  pallid  faces,  thin 
mouths,  and  squinting  glances. 

In  church  the  green  caps  and  red  ones,  with  that 
number  sewed  on  in  white  which  is  the  convict's 
only  name,  were  off,  and  the  early  evening  light  fell 
on  hundreds  of  deformed  malefactors'  heads.  But 
the  warders,  in  spite  of  the  sanctity  of  time  and 
place,  were  standing  stiffly,  watching  sharply,  always 
dreading  a  surprise  ;  and  in  the  great  silence  could 
only  be  heard,  together  with  the  old  priest's  thin 
voice  giving  the  benediction,  the  mutter  of  the  men 
praying,  and  a  monotonous  tinkling  of  chains  moving 
every  minute,  Hfted  up  with  difficulty,  sometimes 
falling  with  a  great  clash  of  iron. 

Huddled  up  in  a  corner,  Rocco  Traetta  felt  over- 
come by  a  great  timidity;  he  was  neither  praying 
nor  speaking,  and  had  no  other  sensation,  acutely, 

II — 2 


i64  ON  GUARD 

but  the  unbearable  weight  of  the  iron  ring  at  his 
ankle,  and  so  as  not  to  let  it  shriek,  not  to  hear  the 
annoying  sound,  he  kept  his  hand  at  his  belt  where 
it  hung  from.  A  growing  depression  came  down  on 
the  nerves  of  that  strong,  easy  young  fellow  who 
had  been  so  delighted  to  leave  San  Francesco,  at 
Naples,  a  stone  prison,  to  be  taken  to  a  fresh,  open, 
laughing  island.  How  did  that  prayer  concern  him  ? 
The  very  clash  of  all  that  iron  being  rattled  jarred 
on  him.  He  felt  each  convict  was  borne  down  by 
what  was  now  a  part  of  his  life,  inseparable  from 
it ;  he  saw  that  they  all  shook  themselves,  tormented 
by  the  weight,  to  try  and  lighten  the  torture  of  it ; 
and  seized  by  a  great  agony  he  could  not  under- 
stand, Rocco  Traetta,  the  parricide,  stood  motion- 
less, swallowed  up  by  depression.  He  felt  no  sensa- 
tion in  his  robust  young  body,  except  in  the  ankle 
bound  with  iron. 

Suddenly,  after  a  few  moments  of  expectant 
silence,  the  priest  raised  the  Holy  Sacrament,  to 
bless* these  thieves  and  murderers,  and  the  convicts 
all  threw  themselves  down,  kneeling.  The  clash  of 
iron  was  as  if  a  forge  had  been  thrown  down. 
Drawn  by  the  movement,  Rocco  Traetta  cast  him- 
self down,  too,  and  the  chain  jumping  back,  fell  on 
him,  heavy  and  cold  against  his  leg  and  side. 

Ah,  no !  Rocco  Traetta  was  not  fanciful,  he  was  a 
primitive  cruel  being,  ignorant  and  ferocious ;  but  as 
the  Saviour,  from  the  shining  gold  sphere,  circled 


ON  GUARD  165 

round  in  the  priest's  quivering  hands,  he  felt  he  was 
covered  by  that  chain,  taken,  conquered  thoroughly 
for  ever  until  death  ;  and  an  imperious  desire  for 
flight — that  idea  that  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  con- 
sciences, even  the  most  desperate — rose  up  in  his 
soul  like  a  prayer.  Why  not  ?  As  they  went  in  to 
supper  in  the  great  hall,  whilst  they  were  eating  the 
potatoes  boiled  with  tomatoes,  taken  out  of  a  great 
tub,  in  porringers,  greedily,  like  so  many  wild  beasts, 
he  thought  that  he  must  escape,  of  necessity  find  a 
means — play  some  trick  at  night  ;  throw  himself 
down  into  the  sea,  and  so  escape.  The  Nisida  roads 
seemed  so  slightly  guarded — he  had  neglected  to 
notice  the  great  height  of  the  island  that  first  day — 
so  that  the  dream  of  flight  went  growing  in  his 
mind,  as  if  it  could  not  be  diflicult  for  him,  a  strong 
young  fellow  and  very  acute,  with  audacity  and 
cunning  to  attempt  escape. 

Taken  by  this  burning  desire,  all  the  time  they 
were  walking  about  in  a  large  court  after  supper,  he 
went  round  and  round,  dragging  his  chain,  without 
noticing  how  hurriedly  he  was  walking,  for  he  was 
eaten  up  by  his  idea  of  flight.  Up  above,  over  the 
courtyard,  the  soft,  starry  night  shone;  he  turned 
his  eyes  there,  and  felt  a  sharper,  more  insane  mania 
for  liberty. 

The  bugles  went  for  silence.  By  squadrons,  going 
along  Nisida's  deserted  roads,  all  gazing  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Bagnoli  and  Pozzuoli,  which   sparkled 


i66  ON  GUARD 

with  lights,  the  convicts  went  back  to  their  dormi- 
tories. It  was  just  so :  the  long  room  where  Rocco 
Traetta  had  been  allotted  a  bunk,  mattress,  and  two 
thick  sheets,  had  a  wide  window,  whence  one  could 
see  the  starry  sky  and  phosphorescent  sea — a  big 
window  that  was  almost  always  kept  open,  or  the 
smell  from  these  human  bodies  would  have  been  too 
unbearable  with  the  heat.  When  the  gas  was  put 
down,  and  the  second  bell  for  silence  was  rung,  many 
of  the  convicts  in  the  room  were  snoring  already. 
Rocco  Traetta  gazed  from  his  bed  at  that  bit  of  sky 
and  sea.  As  usual,  the  chains  jingled  at  every  move- 
ment the  convicts  made — the  now  invisible  chain,  an 
icy  bedfellow,  and  this  noise  excited  Rocco  Traetta's 
fancy.  How  easy  it  would  be  to  escape  by  that 
window  ! 

But  suddenly,  in   the   far   distance,   a   voice  was 
heard,  feeble  but  distinct : 

*  Be  on  the  alert,  sentinel !'  (*A11'  erta,  sentinella !') 
A    little    nearer,   after    a   minute,   another   voice 
said: 

*0n  the  alert,  sentinel !'  ('All'  erta,  sentinella!') 
Still  nearer,  a  third  voice,  sonorous  and  strong, 
called  out :  ' 

'On  the  alert,  sentinel !'  ('All'  erta,  sentinella  !') 
Then  quite  close  a  voice  cried  : 
'  On  the  alert,  sentinel !'  ('All'  erta,  sentinella  !') 
At   last   the   voice   burst  out  under   the   window 
where  Rocco  Traetta  should  have  been  sleeping,  and 


ON  GUAkD  167 

after  that  others  were  heard  further  off,  feebler, 
making  the  round  of  the  island.  Then  anew,  for 
answer,  the  voices  sent  back  resoundingly  this 
answer : 

*I  am  alert!'  (*  All' erta  sto  !') 

Then  all  was  silent.  Rocco  Traetta  dejectedly 
tried  to  patch  together  the  torn  edges  of  his  dream. 
But  hardly  had  he  sought  in  the  darkness  to  take 
courage  again,  when,  in  the  far  distance,  after  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  the  first  voice  began  again  : 

'On  the  alert,  sentinel !'  ('All'  erta,  sentinella  !') 

And  the  long-resounding,  quiet  voices  went  on 
time  about,  passed  again  under  Rocco  Traetta's  great 
window,  went  further  off,  and,  in  the  distance,  after 
making  the  round  of  the  island,  the  answer  rang  out 
clear  and  shrill : 

'I  am  alert!'  C  All' erta  sto  !') 

Every  quarter  of  an  hour — every  quarter  of  an 
hour.  Like  a  nightmare.  When  these  voices  called 
and  answered  each  other  one  heard  the  noise  of  the 
chains  as  the  convicts  tossed  in  their  sleep  on  their 
hard  beds.  But  Rocco  Traetta  was  not  sleeping — no, 
he  jumped  up  every  quarter  of  an  hour.  The  soldiers' 
honest,  faithful  voices  said  :  *  We  are  watching ;  we 
are  here,  armed  and  ready,  with  quick  eyes  ;  we  will 
never  let  anyone  escape — never ;  we  watch ;  nothing 
can  silence  our  voices.'  He  shivered,  in  the  dark, 
with  helpless  rage ;  the  nightmare  weighed  on  him. 
Every  quarter  of  an  hour,  it  was  terrible.     On  the 


i68  ON  GUARD 

Starry  night,  over  the  sea,  the  voices  lengthened  out 
— clear,  strong,  faithful.  He  would  never  escape — 
never.  And  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  conquered, 
prostrate,  hearing  the  voices  always,  the  murderer's — 
the  parricide's — hard  heart  broke,  and  he  wept. 


II 

Stretched  out  on  his  easy-chair,  after  dinner,  the 
Governor  of  the  Royal  Prison  was  reading  a  news- 
paper carefully  from  top  to  bottom,  as  slowly  as  if 
he  wanted  to  imprint  it  on  his  memory.  He  read  it, 
tasting  it  and  pondering  over  it  as  people  do  who 
live  far  from  great  centres,  isolated,  but  not  indifferent, 
exiled  from  all  society,  but  inquisitive  about  any 
movement  of  life.  Sometimes,  however,  the  worthy 
Governor,  whose  honest  face  lost  its  cold  look  in 
private  life,  and  only  kept  its  natural  great  good- 
nature, shook  his  head,  as  if  he  was  reading  bad 
news.  He  had  been  an  ardent  patriot,  a  brave 
soldier,  his  courage  and  enthusiasm  still  kept  warm 
in  that  penal  servitude  prison,  where  they  had  sent 
him  to  wear  out  his  energies,  after  the  two  fatalities 
of  Lissa  and  Custoza.  These  days  were  evil  ones 
for  Italy ;  her  star  seemed  to  be  setting.  He  shook 
his  head ;  he  was  in  low  spirits,  for  he  could  not 
fight  in  1866  as  he  had  done  in  i860.  He  thought 
any  work  was  good,  even  living  among  convicts,  if 
used  as  a  means  of  serving  his  country ;  but  he  would 
have  preferred  risking  his  life  at  that  time  for  his 
country  in  the  field  rather  than  quiver  with  helpless 


I70  ON  GUARD 

rage  in  Nisida.  He  felt  melancholy,  as  all  those  who 
are  born  for  war  and  are  candidly  and  ferociously  in 
love  with  it  feel  when  they  have  to  live  off  martial 
memories,  or  far-off  hopes  of  action. 

*  Is  it  bad  news  ?'  asked  his  wife,  who  was  working 
on  a  baby's  shift  near  the  dining-room  balcony. 

*  It  is  very  bad,'  he  replied,  without  adding 
more. 

She  bent  her  head  over  her  work  and  asked  no 
more  questions.  She  had  asked  that  one,  not 
because  she  was  interested  in  politics  or  war,  but 
to  make  som3  remark  showing  interest  in  her  good 
husband — to  break  the  silence  that  had  already 
lasted  too  long.  She  was  a  young  woman,  with  a 
thoughtful,  oval  face,  rather  worn  by  her  mother- 
hood. She  had  a  sHght  figure,  clad  in  a  plain  black 
cloth  dress.  She  often  glanced  tenderly  towards  the 
baby,  who  was  seated  on  the  ground  on  a  bit  of 
carpet,  quietly  cutting  out  the  pictures  from  the 
Emporio  Pittoresco. 

He  was  a  palHd  child  of  three  years  old,  with  soft 
curly  chestnut  hair  and  a  gentle,  thoughtful  look 
like  his  mother's.  A  very  quiet  child,  in  love  with 
pictures,  delighted  when  he  could  cut  out  any  with 
his  little  scissors.  He  did  it  very  neatly,  without 
spoiling  the  figures  or  pricking  his  fingers.  He  kept 
quiet  for  whole  hours,  alone,  seated  on  the  ground, 
surrounded  by  scattered  pages  of  illustrated  news- 
papers. 


ON  GUARD  171 

'  Mario  !'  his  father  called  out,  after  gazing  at  him 
some  time  with  affectionate  interest. 

'  Yes,  papa.  What  is  it  ?'  the  little  son  answered, 
raising  his  big  chestnut  eyes,  shining  with  good 
temper,  to  his  father. 

*  What  are  you  cutting  out  ?' 

*  I  am  cutting  out  soldiers.' 

*  Are  they  handsome  ones  ?' 

*  Yes,  they  are  lovely.' 

*  Come  and  give  me  a  kiss.' 

The  child  got  up  at  once.  He  was  tall  for  his  age, 
but  thin — thin,  like  his  father.  He  came  up  and 
held  out  his  arms  to  embrace  him ;  then,  letting  go, 
he  leant  his  head  against  his  knee  as  if  he  wanted 
to  sleep.  The  little  white  face  settled  there  as  lightly 
as  a  flower. 

*  Is  he  ill  ?'  Captain  Gigli  asked  his  wife. 

*  No,  he  is  not,'  she  said  at  once. 

*  Send  him  outside,'  he  suggested.  *  Why  does 
he  not  go  out  every  day  ?  Gennaro  Campanile  set 
Mario's  perambulator  right,  did  he  not  ?' 

*  Yes,  he  did,'  she  said  in  a  faint  voice. 

*  And  has  he  brought  the  bookshelf  he  was  to  have 
had  ready  some  days  ago  ?' 

*  Yes,  he  has  brought  it.' 

*  I  do  not  see  it.' 

*  Grazietta  and  I  were  not  strong  enough  to  lift  it 
and  hang  it  on  the  wall.  We  are  not  a  bit  strong,' 
she  added,  with  a  sickly  smile. 


172  ON  GUARD 

*  You  might  let  Gennaro  Campanile  do  it ;  he  is 
quite  strong  and  fit.  He  made  the  shelf;  he  can 
put  it  in  its  place.' 

His  wife  looked  intently  at  him,  and  a  pink  flush 
rose  to  her  forehead.  He,  too,  gazed  at  her,  not 
understanding  what  she  meant. 

*  We  will  try  to  put  it  up  ourselves,'  she  muttered 
then,  as  if  she  was  mortified  at  his  forgetfulness  and 
her  blush. 

*You  will  tire  yourself  uselessly,  girl,'  said  her 
husband,  with  fatherly  good-nature.  *  Send  for 
Gennaro  Campanile  this  very  day.  He  will  come  at 
once  and  put  up  the  shelf — there,  to  the  right.' 

*  No,  no,'  she  said  hurriedly ;  *  I  prefer  to  tire 
myself.' 

He  gazed  at  her,  now  making  out  her  meaning, 
and  a  sadness  came  over  his  loving  face. 

*You  dislike  having  a  convict  in  the  house?'  he 
then  asked  slowly. 

She  turned  beseeching  eyes  to  him,  as  if  asking 
pardon  for  this  abhorrence. 

*  They  are  always  coming  about,'  the  young  woman 
murmured  in  a  feeble  voice. 

*  Do  they  give  you  a  shudder  ?' 

*  Yes;  I  can't  bear  them,'  she  said  still  more  feebly. 
'  You  are  not  very  charitable,'  he  said,  making  an 

attempt  to  speak  harshly  to  her. 

'  I  acknowledge  that  I  am  not,'  she  replied,  putting 
down  her  head,  quite  ashamed. 


ON  GUARD  173 

*  They  are  men  and  fellow  Christians,  Cecilia.' 
'  They  have  robbed  and  committed  murder.' 

*  They  are  men  and  fellow  Christians,'  he  repeated 
firmly. 

She  said  no  more.  She  sewed  feverishly,  to  hide 
the  trembling  of  her  hands,  and  a  slight  pink  like  a 
flame  burned  her  cheek.  The  child,  during  that 
silence,  raised  his  little  head  and  gazed  at  his  father 
and  mother,  then  stretched  out  his  arms  to  pull  his 
father's  head  towards  him  to  kiss  him. 

*  Do  you  hate  the  convicts,  too  ?'  the  father  asked, 
feeling  moved  suddenly,  and  petting  the  child's  head. 

His  little  son  looked  at  him  innocently ;  he  did 
not  understand  the  question. 

'  The  convicts  are  unhappy  fellows,'  his  father  said 
in  a  whisper. 

*  They  are  unhappy  fellows,'  the  child  repeated  in 
a  compassionate  tone. 

Now  Captain  Gigli  folded  the  newspaper  and  shut 
it  up,  putting  it  back  in  its  place  methodically,  for 
everyone  who  leads  an  isolated,  monotonous  life  gets 
to  be  methodical.  He  took  a  brush  to  dust  his  coat ; 
it  was  time  to  go  to  his  office.  The  child  stolidly 
followed  him  about.  He  came  up  to  his  wife  to  kiss 
her,  and  she  said  to  him  hurriedly  : 

*Tell  Gennaro  Campanile  to  come,  then.  Send 
him  at  once — about  the  shelf.' 

*  No,  no ;  if  you  don't  like  it,  my  dear,'  he  said, 
petting  her  as  if  she  were  his  daughter. 


174  ON  GUARD 

*  I  don't  mind  it — -I  assure  you  I  don't  mind,' 
Cecilia  replied,  pnitting  a  great  restraint  on  herself. 

*  Leave  it  alone — leave  it  alone  ;  it  does  not 
signify.' 

'  I  will  go  out ;  I  will  go  over  the  island  with 
Mario,  so  only  Grazietta  will  see  him.' 

*  That  will  be  all  right,'  he  said,  as  he  went  off. 
But  when  her  good,  loving /husband  had  gone  off 

to  his  tiresome  duty,  again  to  live,  an  honest  clean 
man,  among  these  thieves  and  murderers,  she  bent 
her  head  over  her  child's,  bathing  his  neck  with  her 
tears.  She  rarely  wept,  only  shed  a  few  burning  tears. 
She  had  started  bravely  enough  on  her  life  as  wife 
and  mother,  amid  these  queer  surroundings,  where 
deep  solitude  was  varied  by  throngs  of  scoundrels. 
She  was  a  poor  girl,  an  orphan,  with  no  dower,  who 
lived  with  an  old  aunt  and  worked  at  home,  earning 
her  own  living  barely  enough.  Captain  Gigli  had 
married  her  for  herself  out  of  loving  compassion, 
for  he  had  a  large  heart. 

Had  she  not  known  that  she  was  coming  to  live  in 
an  island  amongst  convicts  ?  She  knew  it,  she  had 
agreed  to  it,  thinking  she  would  be  isolated  from 
them,  and  brought  nearer  to  that  good  generous 
man,  who  would  make  up  to  her  for  everything. 
She  had  a  woman's  delicate,  sensitive  temperament, 
influenced  instantaneously  by  sorrow  or  tenderness  ; 
but  there  was  a  spiritual  force  in  her  soul  also,  the 
strength  good  simple  minds  have.     She  had  come  to 


ON  GUARD  175 

the  island  with  child,  near  her  last  month,  and  she 
shut  herself  up  in  the  house  at  once  to  avoid  sights 
that  made  her  shudder.  But  no  closing  of  doors 
and  windows  had  failed  to  shut  out  the  nocturnal 
voices  of  the  watching  sentinels.  How  many  sleep- 
less nights  did  she  have,  hearing  that  long,  long 
challenge  repeated  every  quarter  of  an  hour,  in- 
sistent, continuous,  unfailing ! 

In  the  small  house  that  she  liad  decorated  in  a 
simple  style  she  sat  in  the  evening  hours,  stretching 
her  ears,  listening  to  the  murmuring  of  the  sea; 
then  she  could  think  she  was  on  an  island,  on  the 
lovely  island  she  really  lived  in,  between  sky  and  sea, 
among  flowers  growing  on  the  green  slopes,  and 
perfumes  rising  from  the  shore ;  but  an  insistent, 
implacable  voice  scattered  her  dream,  telling  her: 
*  Take  care,  this  is  a  prison  !' 

What  nights  she  had  !  While  Captain  Gigli  slept 
placidly,  taking  the  rest  of  a  man  who  has  worked 
hard,  she  lay  awake  with  open  eyes  waiting  for  the 
sentinel's  call,  gazing  at  the  feeble  light  of  a  lamp, 
which  sketched  out  the  most  frightful  visions  for  her. 
It  was  on  one  of  these  long,  long  nights  that  "little 
Mario  was  born,  a  fragile  little  son,  who  had  all  her 
delicacy  of  constitution,  and  by  his  pallor  showed 
traces  of  the  nightmare — the  nocturnal  terrors  she 
had  gone  through.  A  part  of  the  poetry  that  a  son 
brings  into  the  house  was  lost ;  the  little  one  was 
born  in  a  prison,  a  place  of  penal  servitude,  among 


176  ON  GUARD 

convicts.  When  his  mother  caught  him  up  to  kiss 
him,  there  was  something  desolate  in  her  kisses ;  she 
seemed  to  want  to  make  up  to  him  for  that  sad 
recollection,  for  this  sorrowful  stain  !  Vainly,  vainly 
she  tried  to  isolate  herself;  she  could  find  no  means 
of  avoiding  contact  with  the  convicts,  for  her  son, 
or  herself. 

The  cradle  Mario  slept  in  had  come  out  of  the 
carpenter's  workshop  that  these  unhappy  men  were 
employed  in ;  his  first  shoes,  the  blessed  first  shoes  that 
make  every  mother's  heart  quiver  with  tenderness, 
had  come  from  a  convict  boot  factory.  What  could 
be  done?  The  captain  had  not  a  large  salary;  he 
could  not  always  be  sending  to  Naples,  and  goods 
from  the  factory  cost  at  least  a  third  less  than  in 
Naples.  She,  out  of  delicacy,  with  great  care,  tried 
to  hide  her  repulsion,  depression  and  fears.  When, 
from  behind  the  window,  she  smiled  on  her  husband 
leaving  the  house,  and  saw  him  at  once  surrounded 
by  convicts — a  group  come  to  make  some  appeal — 
she  got  a  pain  at  her  heart ;  she  pressed  her  son  in 
her  arms  convulsively.  The  convicts  were  looking 
the  Governor  in  the  face  anxiously,  begging  some 
favour  from  him.  They  knew  that  he  was  the  best 
of  them  all ;  he  was  cold  but  gentle,  severe  but 
never  cruel.  However,  she  read  threats  and  anger 
in  these  eyes.  Alas !  nothing  would  ever  convince 
her  that  the  men  had  lost  the  habit  of  shedding 
blood ;  she  would  not  be  persuaded  that  they  had  no 


ON  GUARD  177 

knives  up  their  sleeves.  She  never  let  her  child  go 
out  with  Grazietta — never.  She  always  thought 
that  in  revenge  for  being  shut  up  there — from  an 
animal  thirst  for  blood,  an  instinct  for  murder — one 
of  these  assassins  would  kill  him  one  day.  She 
used  to  go  out,  carrying  him  in  her  arms  like  a  humble 
woman  of  the  people,  without  feeling  the  fatigue, 
and  when  she  met  a  convict  she  cast  down  her  eyes. 
They  bowed  to  her,  pulling  off  their  caps,  stopping 
to  look  at  the  pretty  little  fellow,  yielding  to  the  sweet 
paternal  instinct  that  is  in  the  heart  of  the  greatest 
scoundrels.  But  she  hurried  on,  frightened,  almost 
running  off  with  the  child.  One  convict  she  was 
always  meeting  on  the  road  was  a  great,  robust 
young  fellow,  with  a  colourless  face,  very  womanly 
blue  eyes,  and  red  hair  :  she  was  always  meeting  this 
life-sentenced  man  in  a  red  cap.  It  seemed  almost 
as  if  he  waited  for  the  young  mother  and  child — 
that  tall  convict,  with  the  gentle  eyes  ;  and  when  she 
passed,  gazed  and  gazed,  standing  still,  until  she  had 
turned  the  corner  of  the  long  road. 

Time  went  by ;  she  managed  to  subdue  her  fears, 
but  never  to  conquer  them.  Fragile  and  pensive, 
she  gently  tried  to  get  over  her  low  spirits,  and  her 
husband  always  found  her  affectionate  and  patient  at 
home.  She  was  ashamed  to  own  to  her  disgust, 
ashamed  of  her  fears ;  she  feared  it  was  a  reproach 
to  the  good,  generous  man  who  had  taken  her  out  of 
wretchedness,  from  an  uncertain  future,  only  to  cast 

12 


178  ON  GUARD 

her  into  prison.  He  got  a  glimpse  of  this  feeling  of 
repulsion  sometimes,  and  tried  to  conquer  it ;  he  was 
grieved,  and  had  a  vague  feeling  of  remorse.  So  his 
wife's  heart  closed  as  if  it  was  smothered. 

Only  sometimes  Cecilia  was  struck  by  a  vague 
remorse.  She  really  was  a  very  good  woman, 
religiously  devoted  to  her  duty,  compassionate  of 
all  wickedness,  and  when  she  managed  to  subdue 
her  repulsion  and  fears  she  called  herself  to  account 
for  her  own  injustice  and  cruelty.  Convicts  were 
human  creatures  as  well  as  herself;  her  husband 
often  told  her  so.  He  had  a  just  heart,  though 
he  was  severe  with  them ;  he  told  her  gently  this 
truth :  that  they  were  men  and  Christians,  perhaps 
more  unlucky  than  guilty.  Full  of  grief  and  repent- 
ance, Cecilia  made  up  her  mind  to  bear  the  sight  of 
them  calmly  when  walking  on  the  island,  and  to  bow 
to  them  when  they  took  off  their  caps.  For  a  short 
time,  alas  ! — only  for  a  short  time  !  If  on  the  leafy 
slopes,  where  she  set  her  baby  down  to  pick  daisies 
with  his  innocent  fingers,  she  got  enchanted,  gazing 
at  the  stretch  of  sea,  whilst  Mario  now  and  then  gave 
a  happy  shriek,  because  he  had  caught  an  insect — 
if  in  that  dreamy  forgetfulness  a  man  suddenly 
appeared  dressed  in  brick-red,  dragging  heavily  a 
thick  chain,  she  kept  down  a  frightened  shriek  at 
being  brusquely  drawn  out  of  her  peaceful  dreams ; 
she  grew  pale,  as  in  fear  of  death,  and  took  the  boy 
hurriedly  from  the  ground  to  carry  him  off.     That 


ON  GUARD  179 

countryside,  the  sea,  the  flowers,  the  whole  land- 
scape, branded  all  of  a  sudden  by  the  presence  of  an 
assassin,  made  her  shudder.  What  was  to  be  done  ? 
It  was  stronger  than  herself.  Only  in  her  husband's 
presence,  as  much  as  she  could,  she  held  in  her 
feelings,  knowing  that  she  was  ungrateful — that  she 
indirectly  insulted  him.  She  respected  him  as  the 
very  model  of  justice  and  goodness,  but  she  was  a 
poor  weak  woman,  with  no  courage,  imprisoned, 
shut  up  on  that  island,  in  that  land  of  shame, 
sorrow,  and  punishment,  where  everything  was 
spoilt  by  the  terrible  society — country  and  home,  both 
her  wifely  and  maternal  love. 

But  just  that  day  she  was  more  full  of  remorse 
than  ever.  In  regard  to  her  husband  she  had  been 
ungrateful,  almost  reproaching  him  with  his  kindness 
to  her.  He  had  spoken,  not  harshly,  but  seriously. 
How  much  better  he  was  than  herself!  Her  few 
burning  tears — tears  of  repentance — had  wet  her 
baby's  neck,  and  he,  accustomed  to  these  lonely 
outbursts  of  his  mother's,  and  himself  a  fragile, 
melancholy  child,  went  on  saying  in  a  whisper, 
petting  her  with  his  cool  little  fingers : 

'  Don't  cry,  mamma — don't  cry !' 

*No,  I  am  not  crying,'  said  she,  drying  her  eyes 
and  getting  up.  *  Now  mother  will  take  Mario  out 
walking.' 

*  Take  me  in  the  go-cart,  mother — in  the  go-cart !' 
shouted  the  child,  catching  hold  of  Cecilia's  petticoats. 

12 — 2 


i8o  ON  GUARD 

*  Yes,  dear,  in  the  go-cart,'  she  repeated,  keeping 
back  a  sigh. 

For  it  was  a  rough  child's  perambulator,  made 
coarsely  by  convict  joiners  and  smiths,  with  more  iron 
than  wood  in  it,  and  noisy,  like  the  chains  they  wore 
joined  to  the  ankle  and  belt — a  cart  that  was  heavy 
and  difficult  to  push,  going  crooked  every  moment. 
When  he  was  in  it,  little  Mario  was  so  happy  he 
never  wanted  to  get  out  again ;  he  was  thin,  rather 
weak  on  the  legs,  and  was  delighted  to  lie  on  the 
cushions  that  his  mother  had  stuffed  herself  to  make 
them  soft.  He  was  happy,  getting  himself  taken 
along  in  the  cart  for  whole  hours,  all  over  the  large 
island,  half  shutting  his  eyes,  slumbering  in  the  felt 
hood  which  kept  his  ears  warm.  The  mother,  being 
delicate,  got  tired  after  a  little,  but  baby  wakened  at 
once  from  his  half-sleep,  and  shouted  : 

*  Push,  mother — push  ! ' 

*Wait  a  moment,  Mario,'  she  said,  breathing 
deeply. 

She  stood  leaning  her  hands  on  the  iron  bar, 
resting ;  but  at  once,  in  a  beseeching  tone,  the  baby 
began  again : 

*  Push,  mother — push ;  please  do  !' 

She  set  on  her  way  again  courageously,  without  a 
sigh.  She  never  would  have  dared  to  send  Mario 
out  alone  in  the  go-cart  with  Grazietta  the  servant, 
and  it  was  impossible  for  both  to  go  with  him. 
Work  had  to  be  done  in  the  house;  also  she  was 


ON  GUARD  l8i 

rather  afraid  to  leave  it  empty.  So  that  day,  as  on 
many  others,  she  had  the  heavy  cart  carried  down  the 
steps  in  front  of  the  door,  where  the  child  got  into 
it  with  a  merry  leap,  and  threw  himself  down,  full 
of  delight.  His  mother  put  on  cape  and  gloves, 
and  threw  a  rug  over  the  child's  knees.  Grazietta, 
a  maidservant  of  forty,  a  silent  woman,  stood  look- 
ing on. 

*  Gennaro  Campanile  is  coming  to  put  up  the 
bookshelf,'  said  her  mistress,  with  an  effort.  *  Be 
careful ;  keep  watch  !' 

The  woman  gave  a  slight  smile;  she  knew  her 
mistress's  fears.  Grazietta  was  a  convict's  wife ; 
he  had  slain  a  man  in  a  brawl ;  and,  quietly  faithful, 
she  had  followed  him  everywhere,  from  Portolongo 
to  Ischia,  from  there  to  Nisida,  making  unheard-of 
efforts  to  take  service  in  the  same  island,  and  always 
managing  it  in  some  queer  way,  by  a  miracle  of 
strong  will  and  obstinacy.  So  whatever  she  earned 
she  made  use  of  to  give  to  her  husband.  Thus  two- 
thirds  of  her  food  went  to  him,  and  this  sacrifice  was 
carried  out  silently,  almost  in  an  underhand  way, 
she  was  so  much  afraid  of  being  sent  away  from  the 
island.  The  convict,  a  black-visaged  man  with  a 
ferocious  air,  came  cautiously  to  the  kitchen-grating, 
carried  off  a  covered  plate  of  bread  and  fruit,  and 
went  off  into  a  corner  to  devour  it  greedily.  She 
came  in  from  him  quite  happy,  content  almost  to 
fast  herself;    and  when  her  mistress,  involuntarily, 


i82  ON  GUARD 

showed  her  fear  of  the  convicts,  Grazietta  shook  her 
head.  As  a  woman  of  experience,  she  pitied  the 
lady's  timid  youth,  being  convinced  that  murderers 
were  unlucky  and  not  guilty — convinced  that  the 
misfortune  might  happen  to  anyone. 

'Where  do  you  wish  to  go?'  CeciHa  asked  the 
child  before  starting. 

*  Over  there — there,'  said  he,  pointing  in  front  of 
him. 

The  Nisida  roads  were  as  broad  as  any  in  a 
small  town,  with  levelled  pavements,  shaded  here  and 
there  by  acacia-trees,  which  in  October  were  still 
green.  The  houses — abodes  of  officials,  contractors, 
heads  of  workshops,  and  warders — of  one  or  two 
stories  high,  had  a  pretty  appearance,  like  coquettish 
country  nests ;  the  great  body  of  the  general  prison 
— dormitories,  dining -halls,  galleries,  infirmaries, 
prisons — stood  in  the  middle,  tall  and  dark,  like  a 
rock  overshadowing  all  these  villas.  Sometimes  in  a 
bend  of  the  road  that  surrounds  Nisida,  among  the 
houses  and  trees,  there  was  a  long  view  of  the  sunny 
sea — a  fresh,  smiling  vision.  The  little  boy  stretched 
out  in  the  go-cart  opened  his  eyes  wide,  almost 
laughing,  and  muttered  vaguely : 

*  Go  there  .  .  .  there.' 

His  mother  pushed  the  perambulator  slowly ;  she 
was  seized  by  an  overwhelming  nervous  excitement. 
She  bowed  mechanically  to  some  official's  wife,  a 
contractor's  daughter,  and  passed   on,  still   slowly, 


ON  GUARD  183 

gazing  at  the  sea,  which  was  her  child's  dream  too. 
Sometimes  a  soldier  passed,  or  some  convicts — the 
ones  that  could  go  about  freely.  She  acknowledged 
their  greetings,  bending  her  head  a  little ;  the  child 
touched  his  cap  and  smiled.  But  just  at  one  place 
her  faintness  overpowered  her  ;  she  had  to  let  go  the 
handle  of  the  cart,  and  sit  down  on  a  stone  seat, 
nearly  fainting.  It  was  an  almost  deserted  place 
where  the  houses  ended  and  the  country  part  of 
Nisida  began.  The  child  looked  at  his  mother, 
seeing  her  so  pale  and  her  eyes  half  shut ;  he  hardly 
dared  to  murmur  in  rather  a  cowed  and  frightened 
way : 

'  Push,  mamma — push  the  cart !' 

*  In  a  little,'  she  said  in  a  low  voice ;  it  was  like 
a  sigh,  and  Mario  did  not  hear  her. 

*  My  lady,  may  I  wheel  the  go-cart  ?'  said  a  humble 
but  manly  voice. 

Where  had  that  convict  with  the  fair  complexion 
and  gentle  blue  eyes  come  from  so  suddenly  ?  What 
was  he  asking  ?  What  did  he  want  ?  She  looked  at 
him  in  a  dreamy  way,  frightened,  as  if  he  were  a 
ghost. 

*  Your  little  boy  is  heavy,'  muttered  the  convict, 
still  more  humbly,  *  and  so  is  the  go-cart.  My  lady, 
I  can  wheel  it.' 

She  understood  then.  Getting  pallid  again,  with 
lips  pressed  together,  she  said : 

*  No,  you  may  not.' 


i84  ON  GUARD 

He  looked  at  her,  said  nothing  for  a  minute,  then 
began  again  humbly  but  obstinately : 

*  It  is  not  work  for  your  hands.  Let  me  carry  the 
little  chap.' 

*  No,  you  are  not  to,'  she  said  again  angrily. 

*  Please  forgive  my  boldness ;  I  could  carry  him 
without  tiring  him.  Don't  be  afraid,'  he  ended  up 
by  saying,  in  such  a  gentle  voice  it  seemed  full  of 
tears. 

*  I  am  not  afraid  of  anything,'  she  said  dryly, 
getting  up;  *but  I  don't  want  you  to  carry  my 
child.' 

She  got  up  resolutely,  beginning  again  with  a  heroic 
struggle  to  wheel  the  go-cart.  He  gave  his  arm  a 
wave,  which  made  the  chain  hanging  from  his  waist 
clatter  disagreeably ;  but  he  said  nothing,  watching 
the  mother  and  child  go  off.  She  was  still  quivering 
with  anger,  as  if  the  very  humility  with  which  the 
convict  had  offered  his  services  was  an  insult  to  her. 
Now  they  were  right  in  the  country,  in  a  lane  among 
fields,  where  two  or  three  officers'  horses  came  to 
graze  among  the  cart-horses  used  for  bringing  up 
provisions  from  the  shore. 

*  Mother,'  said  the  baby  reflectively. 

*  What  is  it,  dear,  that  you  wish  ?' 

*  Why  did  you  say  *'  No  "  to  that  convict  ?' 
'  Just  because  I  chose  to.' 

The  child  said  no  more ;  he  felt  that  his  mother's 
voice  was  troubled. 


ON  GUARD  185 

*Now  you  are  tired  of  wheeling  me,  mother,'  he 
remarked  in  a  little. 

*  No,  dear,  I  am  not.' 

*  Lift  me  out,  mother ;  put  me  down.' 

*  Stay  in  the  cart,  dear — stay  in  it.  We  are  going 
further  on  ;  I  will  take  a  rest  then.' 

They  went  on   a  bit,  still   in  silence;    they  had 
passed  already  two  or  three  sentry-boxes.     The  baby 
always  looked  at  the  soldiers,  and  smiled  to  them. 
'  Mamma,'  he  said  again. 
.  *  What  is  it,  dear  ?' 

*  That  convict  wanted  to  carry  me  about,  far  away 
— you  know.' 

*  Yes,  yes,  I  know.' 

*  He  is  an  unhappy  fellow,'  Mario  remarked,  looking 
her  in  the  face. 

*  Who  said  that  to  you  ?' 

'  Father  told  me,'  he  replied  triumphantly. 

She  held  down  her  head,  without  making  any 
remark. 

'Are  the  soldiers  unhappy  fellows,  too,  mother?' 
asked  the  baby,  after  thinking  it  over. 

*The  soldiers  are  honest  men,'  she  answered 
quickly. 

*  So,'  said  the  httle  one,  '  convicts  are  unhappy 
fellows  and  soldiers  are  honest  men.  What  am  I, 
mother  ?     Am  I  a  little  chap  ?' 

*  You  are  my  dear  little  boy,'  she  said,  embracing 
and  kissing  him  tenderly. 


i86  ON  GUARD 

They  had  come  to  quite  a  green  field,  fresh  and 
full  of  flowers ;  a  little  wall  that  rose  half  a  man's 
height  divided  it  from  the  other  field  at  the  side. 
Cecilia  stopped,  utterly  tired,  and  sank  down  to  sit 
on  the  grass.  The  baby  looked  at  the  grass,  flowers, 
and  sea,  as  if  he  were  thinking  :  he  was  too  thoughtful 
and  solemn  for  his  age.  A  sharp  scent  of  flowers  was 
in  the  air — these  roses  that  grow  in  the  four  seasons, 
they  bud  in  a  day,  and  live  passionately  for  one  day 
only — also  a  smell  of  mint,  the  most  common  wild 
herb  in  Nisida. 

Cecilia  recovered  from  her  weariness,  while  the 
child  in  the  cart  half  slumbered. 

*  What  a  scent  of  flowers  !'  she  said,  as  if  to  herself. 

There  were  some  in  the  field  they  were  in,  but 
there  must  have  been  more  in  the  field  alongside 
which  the  wall  kept  them  out  of;  perhaps  it  was  a 
garden,  as  a  partition  had  been  put  up.  Taken  with 
curiosity,  she  got  up.  To  her  first  of  all  astonished, 
then  frightened,  eyes  a  sight,  sad  at  first,  then  terrible, 
appeared.  It  was  a  great  sloping  field,  badly  en- 
closed by  a  little  wall  of  building  material,  thrown 
over  here  and  there  and  become  a  heap  of  rubbish, 
eaten  into  by  weeds  that  had  taken  root  in  it,  cor- 
roded by  the  rain,  beaten  down  by  the  wind — in 
short,  a  miserable  barrier  that  no  longer  prevented 
men  or  animals  from  getting  in,  and  perhaps  no 
longer  marked  the  limits  of  the  field.  The  grass  was 
growing  in  irregular  tufts  on  curiously  uneven  ground; 


ON  GUARD  187 

it  swelled  out  in  places  and  fell  in  again  in  waves, 
like  the  sea  in  a  storm ;  among  the  grass  grew  the 
perennial  rose,  but  the  summer  poppies  were  over, 
only  the  black  crackling  berry  of  the  soporific  was 
left  on  the  thin  stem.  There  was  a  sharp  perfume  of 
wild  flowers,  weeds,  and  roses  —  the  strong  smell 
neglected  fields  have  where  no  one  goes  for  months 
and  years,  where  vegetation  gets  soured  and  spreads 
out  in  a  solitary  way,  dying,  coming  to  life  again,  dying 
down,  free,  forgotten,  neglected,  accursed  perhaps. 
Cecilia  gazed  at  it  with  astonished  eyes ;  she  searched 
well  and  better,  trying  to  understand  the  mystery  of 
that  field,  so  curiously  moved  about,  like  sea  waves, 
surrounded  by  a  wall,  but  still  abandoned  by  men. 
She  saw,  noticed,  that  at  every  little  distance,  at 
four  or  five  points  in  the  deserted  field,  stood  a 
small  wooden  cross  that  had  once  been  black,  but 
time  and  rough  weather  had  discoloured  and  twisted 
it.  A  dirty  yellow  card  was  tied  to  some  of  these 
crosses,  on  which,  written  by  hand,  in  large,  ill- 
formed  characters,  were  two  initials  and  a  cipher — 
the  one  the  dead  had  carried  about  in  life,  the  cipher 
man's  justice  had  assigned  him  instead  of  a  name. 

The  crosses  seemed  thrown  down  pell-mell,  as  if 
by  the  wind's  caprice  or  man's  forgetfulness ;  per- 
haps, having  once  fallen  down,  and  been  found  on 
the  ground,  they  were  put  up  again  by  chance, 
where  the  body  they  ought  to  have  covered  with 
their  little  sacred  shadow  no  longer  existed  perhaps. 


i88  ON  GUARD 

But  Cecilia  was  still  looking,  as  if  a  secret  presenti- 
ment of  grief  and  terror  told  her  there  was  still 
something  to  be  seen.  Looking  intently,  she  saw 
— saw  distinctly — among  the  yellow  earth  and  green 
grass,  white  as  a  bit  of  ivory,  some  human  bones. 
Carelessly  buried,  slightly  covered  with  earth  over 
the  ill-made  coffins,  by  the  natural  movement  of 
the  ground  bearing  increase,  by  the  frightful  motion 
of  decomposition,  the  dead  were  coming  out  anew  on 
the  earth,  and  their  white  bones  sparkled  in  the  sun. 
The  convicts*  graveyard  had  no  sexton.  Beside  the 
fragrant  odour  of  wild  thyme,  the  big  roses  with 
falling  petals,  these  queer  human  sprouts  came  up  ; 
no  merciful  spade  put  them  back  again  in  the  ground. 
She  saw  them  in  every  direction ;  so  all-powerful, 
they  seemed  to  have  pierced  through  the  ground 
forcibly;  so  overflowing,  the  fearful  eye  dreaded  to 
see  the  entire  outhned  skeleton  rismg  from  the 
ground. 

Cecilia  gazed  with  wide-open  eyes  at  this  horrid 
vegetation  of  dead  folk,  on  this  chastisement  of  the 
world's,  that  smites  even  after  death,  that  does  not 
allow  a  murderer's  corpse  even  the  mercy  of  a  deep 
grave,  the  care  any  other  corpse  gets;  denies  even 
the  last  repose  to  bones  that  are  bare  of  flesh.  The 
convicts'  graveyard  did  not  even  have  the  care  of  a 
convict  gardener ;  the  corpse  was  put  in  hastily, 
enclosed  in  four  unconnected  planks ;  no  one  came 
to  work  or  to  pray  there ;  the  dead  came  out  as  if 


i89 

these' prisohers'  boiies^imci  kept  a  final,  bit^  longing 
for  liberty.  - 

(yecilia,  besides  feeling  the  md^^agonizing,  pity, 
had  a  frightful  vision  in  that,.^itude  of  herself,  her 
husband 'and  child  beinfaead  and  buried  in  that 
fi^ld,  that  seemed  accursed  by  God  and  man — buried 
'without  compassion  or  proper  care,  amid  wild  vege- 
tation, in  that  land  beaten  on  %;;Btrn-an<i  wind.  She 
jliad  a  vision  of  three  neglected  corpses  rising  up 
*  again,  bringing  their  bones  to  light  amongst  those  of 
thieves  and  murderers.  A  loud  cry  of  grief  and  fear 
formed  in  her  breast,  but  it  did  not  come  out ;  it  was 
choked  ;  and  she  fell  down,  like  lead,  along  the  wall, 
her  face  in  the  grass. 

When  she  started  up  and  opened  her  (eyes, , amid 
the  great  silence,  she  only  heard  a  rustling.  Her 
infant  was  still  lying  in  his  go-cart/  but  his  eyes  were 
^open  and  he  was  smiling  all  over  at  that  great ^> tall' 
ionvict  with  the  red  hair  and  fair  complexion.  Who 
was  lying  on  the  grass,  fanning  him  with  a  big  vine- 
leaf  for  coolness  and  to  keep  off  the  flies.  As  the 
vine-leaf  passed,  the  little  boy  half  shut  his  eyes  and 
opened  them  again,  giving  a  silent  giggle.  Twice 
looking  at  his  mother,  lying  at  full  length,  he  saidi 
*  Hush  !  mother  is  sleeping.' 

So  the  convict  shook  the  vine-leaf  more  gently 
over\the  baby's  face,  not  to  make  a  noise.  That 
great  body,  dressed  in  reddish  linen,  stretched  on 
the  grass,  looked  as  if  it  belonged  to  a  good-natured 


-^ 


190  ON  GUARD 

childish  giant.  Further  away,  among  the  flowers, 
was  thrown  his  red  cap  that  bore  the  figures  417 ; 
it  looked  like  a  poppy — a  big,  late  poppy. 

Cecilia  felt  nothing  but  great  weariness  when  she 
woke ;  she  leant  on  her  elbow  and  looked  at  her 
son  and  the  convict  without  anger  or  fear.  Rocco 
Traetta  got  to  his  feet  and  stood  embarrassed,  rolling 
the  vine-leaf  between  his  fingers.  The  remembrance 
of  what  she  had  seen  came  back  to  her  entirely,  but 
without  making  her  tremble  ;  only  a  slight  quiver 
came  over  her  flesh. 

*  Let  us  go  on,'  she  said,  getting  up. 

And  with  a  gentle  air  she  pointed  at  the  go-cart 
to  Rocco.  He  picked  up  his  hat  quickly  and  began 
to  wheel  the  cart  joyfully.  She  came  behind,  weakly 
letting  herself  go.     She  was  conquered,  subdued. 


Ill 

Slowly,  speaking  to  each  other  in  a  low  voice, 
Captain  Gigli,  Governor  of  the  Royal  Penal  Estab- 
lishment of  Nisida,  and  the  Royal  Inspector  of 
Prisons,  Signor  Colonna,  were  going  over  the  island 
roads  that  November  mid-day.  The  inspector  was 
staying  at  Nisida  for  three  or  four  days,  living  in  the 
Governor's  own  house.  He  was  a  Piedmontese  of 
about  fifty,  very  methodical  and  scrupulous.  He 
carried  out  his  work  rather  in  a  bureaucratic  way, 
asking  very  minutely  about  everything,  wanting  to 
discuss  everything,  analyzing  the  smallest  things. 
Gentle  and  patient,  submissive  to  a  will-power  he 
deeply  respected.  Captain  Gigli  never  left  the  in- 
spector, giving  him  all  the  information  and  explana- 
tions he  required,  providing  him  with  registers  and 
accounts,  so  that  his  report  on  Nisida  should  be  a 
complete  bit  of  work. 

*  Taking  things  generally,  you  seem  to  me  to  be 
satisfied,'  the  inspector  remarked  in  his  guttural  tone 
of  voice,  that  was  pleasing  enough,  too. 

'  Fairly  so,  sir.  Everything  seems  easier  if  you 
put  your  heart  in  it.' 

*  You  are  quite  content  to  stay  here,  then  ?' 


192  ON  GUARD 

*  As  long  as  they  leave  me  here,'  he  muttered 
rather  vaguely. 

*  I  think  that  your  wife  is  not  so  well  satisfied  to 
be  here,'  Colonna  remarked. 

*  That  is  the  case,  poor  thing,'  replied  Gigli,  with 
a  softening  of  his  voice.  *  She  is  rather  delicate  in 
health  and  fanciful.  To  begin  with,  she  found  the 
surroundings  unbearable.' 

*  Is  she  accustomed  to  them  now  ?' 

'  She  is,  rather,  I  think.  Of  course,  it  is  impos- 
sible I  could  make  a  change  in  a  naturally  melan- 
choly temperament.  Now  she  seems  to  me  sadder ; 
but  she  is  resigned,  poor  girl !  She  is  very  good- 
hearted.' 

*  Perhaps  she  should  be  sent  to  Naples,'  the  in- 
spector remarked,  without  taking  notice  of  the  words 
which  showed  emotion. 

*  My  means  will  not  allow  of  it,'  Captain  Gigli 
said  shortly. 

They  said  no  more.  They  had  come  to  a  little 
square  where  a  new  building  was  springing  up, 
erected  by  the  convicts  themselves.  They  were  going 
and  coming,  carrying  pails  of  lime,  bending  under 
stones,  climbing  the  ladders  quickly. 

*  Do  they  work  willingly  ?'  Colonna  asked. 

*Not  all  of  them.  I  have  about  fifty  men,  the 
most  ungovernable  and  dangerous  ones,  that  I  have 
found  it  impossible  to  get  any  work  out  of.' 

*  Did  you  make  use  of  coercion  ?' 


ON  GUARD  193 

*  I  did.  It  made  them  more  bitter,  but  it  did  not 
subdue  them.' 

'  What  can  be  the  reason  of  that  ?  Can  you  think 
of  any  cause  ?' 

*  They  are  the  prisoners  that  have  always  led  a 
vagabond  life,  living  off  theft  and  rapine.  For  them 
work  is  an  intolerable  thing.  I  will  call  up  one  of 
them.'  Turning  to  a  convict  sitting  on  a  stone 
munching  a  bit  of  bread,  he  called  to  him  :  '  Calama  !' 

He  did  not  turn  round,  not  even  at  the  second  call. 
Gigli  repressed  an  impatient  shrug. 

*  Ingannalamorte '  (Cheat  death). 

Then  the  convict  got  up.  He  was  little  and  fat, 
with  a  protruding  stomach  and  mean,  short  legs  ; 
his  head  was  big,  his  nose  flat,  and  his  hair  like  the 
bristles  of  a  brush,  standing  straight  up  from  the 
forehead ;  his  eyes  were  colourless.  He  kept  his 
cap  on,  and  went  on  eating,  not  at  all  put  out  by 
Gigli  and  the  inspector's  presence. 

*  What  is  your  name  ?'  the  inspector  asked  in  a 
severe  tone. 

'  Ingannalamorte,'  the  convict  said  in  a  hoarse 
voice. 

'  Have  you  no  other  name  ?' 

'  The  other  is  of  no  account,'  said  he  contemptu- 
ously. 

*  How  is  it  that  you  will  not  work  ?' 

'  Ingannalamorte  never  has  worked  !'  ' 

*  However,  the  law  sentenced  you  to  hard  labour.' 

13 


194  ON  GUARD 

*  The  law  can  force  me  to  stay  here — that  can't  be 
helped.     But  it  must  come  to  an  end,  by  God !' 

'  Do  not  blaspheme.     You  are  bound  to  work.' 

*  To  stay  here  is  all  right ;  I  can't  avoid  it.  I 
have  to  carry  this  chain,  too  ;  it  is  the  watch  that 
Vittorio  makes  us  a  present  of.  But  wear  myself 
out,  by  Gad ! — no,  never  !' 

This  was  said  with  sulky  energy. 

*  It  might  get  you  good  marks  if  you  worked,'  said 
Colonna. 

'  What  is  the  use  of  good  marks  ?  I  still  have 
twenty  years  to  serve.  But  who  knows  if  I  will  do 
it  all  ?'  he  added  in  a  challenging  tone. 

'  How  so  ?' 

*  Oh,  so  many  things  may  happen  !  I  may  die ; 
I  might  escape,  too.' 

*  There  is  no  escaping  from  Nisida,'  Captain  Gigli 
said  to  him,  very  gently,  but  firmly. 

*  Men  do  escape,'  said  the  convict  triumphantly — 
*  or  one  may  die.    But  you  know,  sir,  one  did  escape.' 

The  inspector  questioned  the  Governor  with  a 
look.     He  gave  an  assenting  glance. 

*  Only  one,  of  course,'  the  haughty  convict  went 
on  ;  '  but  where  one  gets  through,  so  can  another. 
It  all  depends  on  not  being  carrion,  as  they  all  are 
here — on  making  a  great  leap.  And  then,  will  this 
law  always  last  ?     Will  this  Government  last  ?' 

*  That  is  enough  !'  said  the  inspector  severely. 
The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  went  off. 


ON  GUARD  195 

'  He  is  ungovernable — quite,'  said  Captain  Gigli. 
'  I  have  at  least  fifty  like  that.' 

*  Have  they  never  risen  in  revolt  ?' 
'  Once  they  did.' 

*  Once  only,  was  it  ?' 

*  They  all  think  themselves  great  men ;  they  scorn 
the  law  and  the  sentence  passed  on  them ;  and 
among  them  everyone  wants  to  take  the  lead,  so 
that  they  do  not  easily  agree  to  act  together.  That 
gives  me  a  weapon  against  them.' 

*  Still,  they  did  rise  in  revolt  ?' 

*  Yes,  they  did.' 

*  Was  the  revolt  put  down  at  once  ?' 

*  No,  it  was  not.' 

*  Did  anything  happen  ?' 

*  I  was  wounded  by  a  stone  on  the  head.' 

*  You  went  down  among  the  mutineers,  then  V 

*  Yes ;  it  was  my  work,'  Captain  Gigli  said  simply. 
'  How  did  you  induce  them  to  submit  ?' 

*  I  spoke  to  them ;  I  let  them  speak.  They  wished 
to  see  their  families  oftener — once  a  month  instead 
of  every  two  months.  It  was  a  just  request,  so  I 
granted  it.' 

*  You  did  right.     Do  their  families  come  often  V 

*  Very  seldom,  and  very  few  of  them  at  all.  There 
are  convicts  belonging  to  far-off  provinces  who  never 
have  a  visitor ;  others,  Naples  men,  see  their  people 
every  six  months ;  some  committed  murder  in  their 
own  family,  so  no  one  comes,  of  course.     There  is 

13—2 


196  ON  GUARD 

Rocco  Traetta,  called  Sciurillo,  who  killed  his 
father ;  he  is  a  well-behaved  young  man ;  he  is 
always  writing  to  his  mother,  entreating  her  to 
come  and  see  him.  His  letters  go  through  my 
hands ;  sometimes  they  are  heartrending.' 

*  Has  his  mother  ever  come  ?' 

*  No,  never.  She  has  not  even  answered  the  con- 
vict's letters.' 

*  That  is  natural,'  said  the  stern  Piedmontese. 

*  Who  knows  ?'  said  Gigli  thoughtfully.  '  Mothers 
are  so  queer,  and  unnatural  sometimes  in  their 
maternal  love.  I,  too,  thought  for  a  time  that 
she  would  come.  Her  son  still  thinks  so ;  he  sup- 
poses that  his  letters  have  gone  astray,  or  that  his 
mother  has  to  work  and  can't  come ;  that  she  has 
no  money  to  get  to  Nisida,  or  that  she  is  just  on  the 
point  of  coming.' 

*  Does  Traetta  tell  you  all  that  ?' 

*  He  tells  my  child,'  replied  Gigli,  smiling. 

*  What !  he  tells  your  child  ?' 

*  Yes ;  Traetta  is  always  about  him,  with  the 
fidelity  and  love  that  big  dogs  have  for  children.' 

*  Do  you  leave  your  child  with  him  ?' 

*  Yes ;  I  think  it  is  always  better  to  treat  them 
as  men  and  Christians.  Who  can  do  harm  to  an 
innocent  child  ?  The  baby,  too,  gets  more  humane ; 
it  is  a  way  of  making  him  courageous.' 

*  You  have  queer  notions,'  the  inspector  observed, 
with  an  incredulous  smile. 


ON  GUARD  197 

They  had  got  to  a  door  of  the  great  prison  building ; 
they  had  to  visit  the  infirmary,  which  was  on  the  last 
floor.  As  they  were  going  up,  they  still  met  convicts, 
holding  tumblers  and  plates. 

'  I  appoint  them  to  serve  the  sick  in  the  little 
hospital.' 

'  Do  you  think  that  is  a  good  plan  ?' 

*  They  understand  each  other  better.  The  con- 
tinual presence  of  the  warders  exasperates  the 
quietest.     With  the  sick  I  try  to  avoid  it.' 

'  You  will  have  lots  of  sham  invalids.' 

*  Very  often ;  but  it  is  a  sham  easy  to  detect.' 
The   convicts'   hospital   consisted    of    one   single 

large  room,  with  four  big  windows  opening  on  to 
the  sea ;  the  floor  was  of  beaten  earth,  very  black  ; 
the  wal)s  simply  whitewashed ;  but  the  beds  were 
more  comfortable  than  the  ones  that  the  healthy 
men  had ;  there  was  not  the  usual  sack  with  blue 
and  white  lines,  swollen  out  with  rusthng  maize 
leaves,  but  a  thin  woollen  mattress  and  not  such 
coarse  sheets.  Eight  or  ten  convicts  were  lying  sick, 
motionless,  and  silent  in  their  beds,  gazing  at  the 
sea,  which  could  be  seen  from  all  the  windows, 
with  rather  dreamy  eyes.  One  of  them,  a  scraggy, 
yellowish  man,  called  the  Governor  in  a  feeble  voice. 
'  Sir,  why  do  you  not  do  me  the  kindness  of  order- 
ing a  bit  of  meat  for  me  ?  I  have  not  eaten  any  for 
such  a  long  time  !' 

*  You  will  get  it  if  the  doctor  orders  it. 


.'<^: 

iV//l^ 

^ 

-■( 

/^0D\^^^'^ 


198  ON  GUARD 

*  Do  me  another  favour.  Have  me  placed  opposite 
the  sea,  so  that  I  can  see  it ;  my  back  is  turned  to 
it,  and  I  feel  an  oppression — a  weighing  on  me.' 

He  complained  in  a  thin  little  voice,  groaning  and 
sighing,  repeating  his  requests,  repeating  the  words, 
shaking  his  lean  head.  The  other  sick  men,  who 
were  saying  nothing,  looked  at  him  with  rather 
astonished,  bored  eyes.  The  inspector,  saying 
nothing,  wandered  round  the  beds,  looking  at  every- 
thing, while  the  whimpering  convict  still  asked  for 
something,  insistently. 

'Not  to  be  able  even  to  smoke  a  pipe  with  this 
fine  sea  air,  to  digest  these  four  beans  they  give  us !' 

*  Have  you  no  tobacco  ?'  Captain  Gigli  asked  him, 
with  fine  patience. 

*  Who  would  give  it  to  me — who  will  give  it  to 
me,  poor  chap  ?  If  I  had  even  that  good  soul,  my 
wife,  she  would  think  of  sending  me  some  sous  !' 

*  If  you  behave  well — if  you  don't  complain,  as  you 
do,  from  morning  to  night,  whether  you  are  well  or 
ill — I  will  buy  some  tobacco  for  you.' 

'  Have  I  not  good  reason  to  complain,  sir  ?'  the 
convict  went  on  groaning.  *  You  are  kind,  that  can't 
be  denied  ;  but  does  this  seem  a  life  for  a  Christian  ? 
And  then,  this  chain  that  we  can  never  take  off — 
never,  even  when  the  Lord  chastens  us  by  making 
us  ill !  This  chain,  this  chain  !  Would  that  an  angel 
might  come  and  take  it  from  me !' 

He  was  still  groaning,  but  when  he  mentioned  the 


ON  GUARD  199 

chain  a  deep  sigh  came  from  all  these  breasts  that 
had  the  cold  contact  of  the  iron  against  their  flesh. 

*  He  is  very  tiresome,'  said  Captain  Gigli,  *  but  he 
is  always  ill ;  I  give  him  some  privileges  because  of 
that.' 

'  Did  his  wife  die  when  he  was  here  ?'  asked  the 
inspector,  as  they  were  going  downstairs  on  their 
way  out. 

'  He  killed  her  himself.  He  was  a  snow-seller  of 
Caserta — they  call  him  Ciccio,  the  snow-man.  To 
break  the  lump  of  snow,  these  people  use  a  broad, 
thin-edged  hatchet,  with  which  they  strike,  giving 
frequent  blows.  It  was  with  that  he  nearly  cut  off 
his  wife's  head.' 

*  Was  it  out  of  jealousy  ?' 

*  Yes,  of  a  corporal.  He  was  arrested  at  once. 
When  he  heard  she  was  dead  he  wept  like  a  child. 
Here,  too,  he  cries  sometimes,  and  shouts  out  that 
he  would  have  done  better  to  forgive  her;  that  he 
does  forgive  her ;  that  he  would  like  to  bring  her  to 
life,  and  always  keep  together.' 

*  He  must  be  an  awful  bore,'  remarked  the  in- 
spector, as  they  took  the  road  for  returning  to  the 
controlling  offices  again. 

They  were  silent,  walking  slowly.  A  great  twilight 
calm  was  around  them.  The  grayish  November  day 
was  wearing  away  to  its  last  hours. 

*  What  a  lot  of  windows  looking  on  to  the  sea !' 
said  Colonna,  as  if  speaking  to  himself ;  '  the  whole 


200  ON  GUARD 

island  seems  so  easy  to  land  at  and  get  away  from. 
How  is  it  that  the  convicts  don't  think  of  escape?' 

'  They  all  do  think  of  it,'  said  Gaptain  Gigli  in 
a  low  voice ;  '  the  quietest,  most  industrious,  in- 
different, the  most  absent-minded  and  hypocritical, 
think  of  it  constantly.  You  understand,  they  feel  as 
if  they  were  free,  for  I  let  them  go  and  come ;  they 
wander  about  everywhere.  You  always  find  some  of 
them  rapt  up  gazing  at  the  sea,  and  I  guess  from 
their  absorption  and  drawing  their  eyebrows  together 
that  they  are  calculating  the  distance  in  their  minds, 
the  depth  of  the  water,  how  far  it  is'  to  Bagnoli,  how 
far  to  Procida.' 

'  Still,  the  island  seems  little  guarded.' 

'  It  may  seem  so,'  said  the  Governor,  smiling ; 
*  but  come  and  look  at  the  height  of  it.'  And  guiding 
him,  after  crossing  two  streets,  he  led  him  to  the 
very  edge.  The  height  of  it  made  one  dizzy ;  the 
sea  beneath  seemed  an  abyss.  *  It  is  like  that  all 
round  and  round,'  he  said,  '  and  every  hundred  paces 
there  is  a  sentinel,  night  and  day.  At  night  more 
are  put  on.  Every  quarter  of  an  hour  they  challenge 
each  other.  Running  away  seems  the  easiest  thing 
in  the  world  to  these  unhappy  fellows  till  they  get 
to  the  edge  ;  there  they  have  to  throw  themselves 
down  into  the  sea.  They  are  too  much  afraid  to 
leap.     Once  one  was  found  in  a  swoon  in  the  grass.' 

'  Still,  flight  has  been  attempted  ?' 

'  Yes,  there  have  been  eight  or  ten  of  them  who 


ON  GUARD  20I 

have  tried  it,  of  whom  at  least  half  were  caught  by 
the  sentinel  before  they  threw  themselves  down ;  the 
other  four  carried  it  out  to  the  very  end,  but  there 
was  only  one  who  was  successful.' 

*  Was  he  not  caught  ?' 

*  No ;  he  was  a  Naples  sailor,  of  Santa  Lucia,  of 
the  kind  who  from  their  childhood  go  to  the  bottom 
of  the  sea  to  pick  up  bits  of  money — even  sous. 
They  are  divers  from  infancy,  called  sommozzatori. 
We  never  got  him  again.  He  must  have  gone  to 
some  foreign  country  on  a  merchant  ship,  and 
stayed  there.' 

*  What  about  the  other  three  ?' 

'  All  of  them  were  killed.  A  sentinel  told  me  that 
the  cry  he  heard,  as  one  of  them  went  down,  was  so 
agonizing,  he  knew  at  once  that  the  man  escaping 
was  dead.  In  fact,  we  have  always  found  them  next 
day  dead  on  the  rocks.' 

'  That  would  be  a  healthy  example  for  the  others.' 
^  We  brought  up  the  smashed  bodies,  which  caused 
great  horror.  But  what  does  it  matter  ?  they  are 
always  dreaming  about  making  their  escape.  What 
we  oppose  to  it  is  just  the  fear  of  death.  They  have 
a  horror  of  dying  here  in  the  prison,  all  of  them.  I 
must  say  that  our  cemetery  gives  one  a  shudder.  In 
spite  of  all  my  efforts,  I  have  not  found  a  convict — 
I  have  not  induced  either  a  convict  or  a  soldier  to 
take  charge  of  the  little  graveyard.  The  wall  has 
fallen   in    most   places ;    not   one   of  the   bricklayer 


202  ON  GUARD 

convicts  will  set  it  up  again.  I  punished  them,  but 
it  was  no  use.  It  gives  the  soldiers  a  shudder,  too. 
They  are  in  low  spirits,  at  any  rate,  from  the  gaoler's 
life  they  lead  here  ;  I  do  not  want  to  oblige  them  to 
do  sadder  work.  I  would  like  to  be  authorized  by 
my  superiors  to  go  to  the  expense  of  a  cemetery- 
keeper — any  sort  of  peasant ;  but  I  never  get  a  reply 
to  my  letters  on  this  subject.  I  assure  you,  sir,  that 
the  very  sight  of  this  frightful  graveyard  makes  the 
convict's  slightest  wish  of  running  away  pass  for  a 
time.  You  ought  to  interest  yourself  about  it  in 
your  report.' 

*  I  will  see — I  will  see,'  replied  Colonna  vaguely. 

On  the  house  balcony,  whence,  between  two 
buildings  opposite,  one  saw  a  corner  of  the  sea, 
they  had  spread  a  linen  awning  carefully  to  shelter 
it  from  sun  and  damp.  When  little  Mario  was  taken 
at  times  with  the  great  indolence  that  came  from 
weakness,  when  he  refused  everything,  and  would 
not  play,  walk,  sleep,  or  go  in  the  perambulator, 
and  got  buried  in  melancholy,  taciturn  ponderings 
over  things  that  not  even  his  mother  could  make 
out,  then  they  carried  him  in  his  easy-chair,  with  his 
toys  and  book  of  pictures,  on  to  the  balcony,  where 
striped  carnations,  heartsease,  flaming  red  geraniums, 
sweet-smelling  marjoram  and  sweet  basil  bloomed  in 
pots.  They  could  leave  the  child  alone,  too,  on  the 
balcony  for  whole  hours  ;  he  did  not  call  for  anyone. 


ON  GUARD  203 

He  kept  quiet,  turning  over  now  and  then,  with  a 
white,  almost  transparent,  hand,  his  book  of  pictures, 
or  sat  looking  at  the  sea,  dumb  and  motionless. 

His  pallid  mother  stared  then,  with  uneasy  eyes, 
at  her  low-spirited  infant,  and  sometimes,  seized  by 
a  strange  fright,  she  came  to  kneel  in  front  of  his 
chair,  surrounding  him  with  her  loving  motherly 
arms,  and  questioned  him  anxiously. 

*  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?' 

*  I  have  nothing  the  matter  with  me,  mother.' 

*  Do  you  feel  ill  ?' 

*  No,  mother,  I  do  not.' 

*  Really,  do  you  not  feel  ill  ?' 

*  Not  a  bit,  mother,'  replied  the  Httle  fellow,  smiling 
with  angelic  patience,  like  a  big,  wise,  loving  lad. 

*  Are  you  pleased,  Mario  ?' 

*  Yes,  I  am,  quite.' 

*  You  would  like  to  go  to  Naples,  would  you  not  ?' 

*  Yes,  I  would,  mother.' 

*  Oh,  my  darling — my  darling !'  she  said,  kissing 
him  despairingly. 

*  But  it  is  nice  here,  too — here  as  well,'  the  child 
repeated,  embracing  his  mother,  and  leaning  his 
cheek  on  her  shoulder. 

'  Poor  darling  !  poor  dear  !' — as  if  a  great  grief  for 
the  child  was  wringing  her  heart. 

*  It  is  very  nice  here,'  he  said  mechanically,  like  a 
good,  reasonable  lad  that  does  not  want  to  put  any- 
one about. 


204  ON  GUARD 

But  his  mother  was  not  quite  convinced.  Every 
time  that  she  saw  her  son  palhd  and  silent  a  sharp 
grief  went  through  her ;  she  always  thought  :  '  It  is 
the  prison,  the  fault  of  the  prison.'  No,  no,  nothing 
could  prevent  her  from  dwelling  on  this  frightful 
thought.  Her  youth,  gaiety,  her  withered  illusions 
were  gone  for  ever.  She  would  never  enjoy  again 
a  single  hour  of  giddy  happiness,  the  great  simple 
time  that  is  granted  to  the  humblest  destinies,  the 
hour  of  fervent  youth.  But  what  did  it  matter  about 
herself  now  ?  Her  agony  was  for  that  little  son,  a 
delicate  flower  born  in  a  convict  atmosphere,  grow- 
ing up  amidst  that  cruel  endless  tragedy  of  hundreds 
of  chained  men ;  a  poor  flower,  for  ever  blighted 
by  a  poisonous  atmosphere.  Of  course,  the  child 
guessed  it ;  his  melancholy,  so  sad  in  a  child,  the 
blight  on  his  health,  was  caused  by  that.  '  It  is  the 
gaol,'  the  mother  thought  to  herself.  Still,  as  the 
father  wished  it,  as  the  child  himself  sometimes  was 
amused  by  him,  she  allowed  Rocco  Traetta  to  wheel 
the  go-cart,  to  keep  the  child  company  on  the 
balcony,  and  try  to  mend  his  broken  toys.  Silent 
and  humble,  Rocco  Traetta  slid  through  the  house, 
keeping  the  chain  tight  against  his  leg  not  to  let  it 
chink,  taking  up  as  little  room  as  possible,  keeping 
out  of  Cecilia's  way,  for  he  could  feel  her  dislike. 
He  always  went  after  the  child  like  a  shadow,  gazing 
in  his  eyes  so  fixedly  and  tenderly,  his  glance  was 
like  a  woman's — a  mother's.     Every  day  he  came  to 


ON  GUARD  205 

the  Governor's  house  and  stood  at  the  door,  without 
going  in  or  knocking,  waiting  like  a  dog  that  is  to 
have  a  bone  thrown  to  him,  but  dare  not  ask  for  it, 
having  to  trust  to  man's  merciful  remembrance. 
Sometimes  Grazietta  passed  and  told  him  : 

*  Come  in.' 

Sometimes  no  one  went  by,  and  he  stood  an  hour 
there,  stiff  as  a  statue.  He  was  very  happy  when 
Cecilia,  going  on  to  the  balcony,  saw  him,  and, 
knowing  that  he  had  been  there  some  time,  said, 
keeping  down  her  natural  dislike  to  him  : 

*  Come  up,  then.' 

That  strong  young  fellow's  imploring  glance,  ask- 
ing dumbly,  as  a  favour,  to  see  the  little  one,  to  be 
allowed  to  stay  beside  him,  affected  her.  When  he 
got  the  word,  he  reddened  with  delight,  went  up 
quickly,  making  no  noise,  and  passed  by  her,  with 
his  cap  off  and  eyes  down.  He  went  to  find  the 
child  at  once,  and  held  him  up  in  the  air,  which  set 
him  chattering.  They  spent  hours  out  on  that 
balcony.  The  convict  sat  on  the  ground,  the  chain 
lying  across  his  knees,  and  a  queer  conversation  took 
place  between  Mario  and  Rocco  Traetta,  with  long 
silences  between. 

'  Who  made  that  dress  for  you,  Sciurillo  ?' 

*  It  was  Government.' 

*  Did  you  get  the  cap,  too  ?' 

*  Yes,  sir,  I  did.' 

*  Government  is  very  kind,'  said  the  boy. 


2o6  ON  GUARD 

The  convict  looked  at  him,  but  said  nothing.  If 
the  boy  had  said  in  full  daylight  that  it  was  night, 
he  would  have  said,  *  Yes,  it  is  dark.' 

Then,  after  a  little,  the  child  began  again  : 

*  What  did  they  give  you  to  eat,  Sciurillo  V 

*  Bean  broth,  sir.' 

'  What  was  the  second  dish  ?' 

*  Just  bean  broth.' 

'  What  had  you  for  fruit  ?' 

*  I  had  beans,'  said  the  convict,  laughing. 
Then  they  both  laughed. 

The  boy  suddenly  got  thoughtful. 

*  I  had  macaroni,  Sciurillo,'  he  said  reflectively. 

*  May  it  do  you  good,  sir !'  said  Sciurillo,  laugh- 
ing. 

*  Do  you  like  macaroni  ?' 
'  Yes,  I  do.' 

*  The  next  time  I  will  eat  less  of  it ;  I  will  keep  a 
plateful  for  you.' 

*  It  does  not  signify,  sir,'  said  the  convict,  quite 
touched. 

'  Yes,  yes,  you  will  have  to  eat  it,'  shouted  Mario, 
rather  in  a  rage. 

*Yes,  sir — yes,  sir — don't  get  angry,'  Rocco 
Traetta  answered  at  once  in  alarm. 

The  child,  in  a  fretting  way,  turned  over  his 
picture-book. 

*  Read  what  is  written  under  there,'  he  said  to 
Sciurillo,  pointing  out  a  sentence  under  a  little  figure. 


ON  GUARD  207 

'  Do  you  not  know  how  to  read  ?  How  stupid  you 
are!' 

*  If  I  could  read,  I  would  not  be  here,'  said  Rocco 
Traetta  sadly,  after  thinking  a  time. 

*You  are  here  because  you  are  a  scoundrel,'  said 
the  child,  laughing. 

'  Yes,  sir,'  muttered  the  convict.  '  But  those  who 
know  how  to  read  don't  go  to  gaol.' 

'  You  are  a  scoundrel,  that  is  why  you  were  put  in 
gaol,'  Mario  insisted  angrily. 

*  Yes,  sir — yes,  sir,'  Sciurillo  murmured  meekly. 
They  said  no  more.    The  boy  looked  at  the  striped 

carnations  which  were  still  flowering,  in  spite  of  it 
being  November ;  the  balcony  was  so  much  in  the 
sun.     A  film  of  dust  covered  all  the  plants. 

*  Should  I  water  them  ?'  asked  the  convict,  guess- 
ing the  boy's  thoughts,  and  getting  up  off  the  ground. 

*  Yes,  but  don't  put  much  water  on,  Sciurillo.' 
The  convict,  still  with  his  silent  bearing,  slipped 

through  the  room,  and  went  to  the  kitchen  to  fill  the 
watering-pot. 

'  There  are  the  copper  pots  to  rub,'  said  Grazietta, 
who  was  glad  to  put  off  her  work  on  the  convict. 

*  In  a  little ;  young  master  wants  me  to  water  the 
flowers  just  now,'  Sciurillo  said  patiently. 

Out  on  the  balcony  he  made  the  water  shower 
gently  on  the  rather  burnt-up  earth  in  the  pots.  The 
child  followed  the  work  with  great  attention. 

*  Water  the  leaves  a  little,  Sciurillo.' 


2o8  ON  GUARD 

'  Yes,  sir,  I  will.' 

A  little  water  was  left  in  the  pot.  Sciurillo  threw 
it  down  on  the  balcony  in  a  circle,  to  freshen  it. 

*  Pull  a  carnation  for  me,  Sciurillo.' 

The  convict  broke  off  a  carnation  carefully,  and 
handed  it  to  Mario. 

*  I  want  to  give  this  to  mother,'  said  the  boy 
thoughtfully. 

*  Do  you,  sir  ?' 

*  Go  and  take  it  to  her.' 

The  convict  looked  at  the  child  with  an  alarmed 
air. 

*  Go  at  once  !'  the  boy  commanded. 

*  Sir,'  he  said  hesitatingly,  *  why  don't  you  give  it 
yourself?' 

*  Why  should  I  ?' 

*  It  would  be  better,  you  know,  little  sir,  to  give 
the  carnation  yourself.  From  you  it  gives  pleasure, 
sir.' 

His  voice  shook  so  much  that  even  the  child  under- 
stood his  emotion. 

Mario  looked  at  him  fixedly. 

*Your  mother  can't  bear  us,'  said  the  convict, 
'  because  we  are  all  scoundrels.  She  is  quite  right,' 
he  added  very  humbly. 

'  She  is  quite  right,'  replied  the  child.  And,  rising 
on  his  rather  weak  little  legs,  for  they  were  so  thin, 
he  went  into  the  house  again,  calling  out :  *  Mamma, 
mamma  1' 


ON  GUARD  209 

A  great  chirrup  of  kisses  followed,  and  the  convict 
smiled  to  himself.  Now  he  was  taking  the  dry 
leaves  off  the  plants,  and  thinking  that  Grazietta 
had  told  him  to  rub  up  the  copper  pots  in  the 
kitchen.  But  the  child  showed  again  at  the  balcony 
window;  he  came  and  threw  himself  down,  with 
a  tired  air,  on  his  easy-chair,  and  turned  over  the 
picture-book  with  slow  fingers,  his  eyes  vaguely 
staring  as  if  he  did  not  see.  Then  the  book  fell  off 
his  knees  on  to  the  ground  ;  the  convict  ran  to  pick 
it  up. 

*  I  don't  want  it,'  said  the  child,  looking  dis- 
pleased. 

'  What  is  it  that  you  want,  sir  ?' 

*  I  don't  want  anything,'  said  Mario,  shaking  his 
head. 

*  Do  you  wish  me  to  tell  you  a  story  ?' 

*  No ;  they  are  ugly  ones.' 

*  Would  you  like  me  to  sing  you  a  song  ?' 

*  Yes,  sing  something,'  said  the  baby,  smiling. 
So  the  convict  began  cheerfully  : 

'  Si  iesco  da  cck  dinto  carcerato.' 

He  sang  in  a  low  voice,  but  cheerfully,  the  prisoner's 
threatening  song  :  he  wants  to  set  fire  and  flame  to 
everything  when  he  gets  out  of  prison. 

*  That  is  too  cheerful.  Sing  me  another  one,'  said 
Mario  languidly. 

So  the  convict  very  softly  began  again,  singing  a 

14 


2IO  ON  GUARD 

sad  old  song,  which  he  knew  from  the  time  he  spent 
two  years  in  San  Francesco  prison  at  Naples,  wait- 
ing for  his  sentence — a  sad,  lengthy  song,  with  a 
queer  metre  and  fantastic  rhymes  : 

*  A  San  Francesco,  Gia  ssona  la  sveglia.' 

He  sang  in  a  low  voice,  holding  his  knees  with 
his  hands,  shaking  his  red-capped  head.  The  boy 
listened,  half  shutting  his  eyes.  He  had  twice  or 
thrice  nodded  his  head  to  the  queer  slow  chant. 
The  convict  took  up  the  verses  again — the  ode  that 
invokes  freedom.  The  child  went  to  sleep.  Rocco 
Traetta  still  sang  on  at  the  sad  prison  chant  to  lull 
an  innocent  child  to  sleep. 


IV 

All  night  Captain  Gigli  had  been  much  agitated. 
His  wife,  a  very  hght  sleeper,  who  could  never 
slumber  deeply  because  of  the  sentinels'  voices  call- 
ing to  each  other  every  quarter  of  an  hour,  noticed 
at  once  that  her  husband  was  turning  over  and  over 
in  his  bed,  that  he  sighed  sometimes  like  a  man 
oppressed. 

*  Are  you  feeling  ill  ?'  she  asked  him  two  or  three 
times,  half  opening  her  eyes  in  the  darkness. 

'  No,  no,'  he  said  with  eagerness ;  '  sleep  quietly. 
I  am  all  right ;  it  is  only  I  am  not  sleepy.' 

She  put  down  her  head  obediently,  trying  to  go  to 
sleep — to  fall  into  the  slight  slumber  of  her  shaken 
nerves ;  but,  half  asleep  and  half  awake,  she  still 
made  out  that  her  husband  was  restless. 

Captain  Gigli  got  up  very  early  in  the  morning, 
when  it  was  hardly  dawn,  and  said  to  his  wife,  who 
looked  up  at  him  with  wide-open  eyes,  astonished  : 

*  Sleep,  sleep,  poor  darling !  I  am  going  to  take  a 
walk — a  long  walk.' 

At  dinner-hour  he  came  back,  looking  rather  pale  ; 
he  was  silent  and  nervous.  He  went  up  and  down 
close   to  the  window  looking  on  to  the   road   that 

14 — 2 


212  ON  GUARD 

came  up  from  the  shore  to  Nisida,  and  gazed  at  the 
Bagnoli  shore  to  see  if  any  boat  was  coming  off. 
Then  he  sat  down  to  dinner,  distracted  and  silent. 
At  one  time  he  asked  : 

'  It  is  the  sixth  of  November,  is  it  not  ?' 

*  Yes,  it  is,'  repHed  CeciHa. 

'  Why  do  you  ask,  father — why  ?'  demanded  the 
child,  who  always  asked  questions,  obstinately,  with 
a  little  boy's  persistent  curiosity,  which  shows  intelli- 
gence in  them. 

*  I  will  tell  you  later  on,  dear,'  said  his  father, 
becoming  silent  again. 

After  dinner,  about  three  o'clock,  he  had  all  the 
newspapers  of  the  last  few  days  brought,  and  he 
read  them  feverishly.  But  suddenly  his  agitation 
quieted  down.  A  telegraph-boy  from  Naples  came 
in,  and  handed  Gigli  a  telegram.  His  hand  shook 
as  he  opened  it,  so  that  Signora  Gigli  trembled  too, 
with  ignorant  emotion,  and  she  could  hardly  sign 
the  receipt. 

*  There  is  the  express  and  the  boat  to  pay  for,' 
said  the  telegraph-boy. 

*  How  much  is  it  ?'  asked  Cecilia. 

*  Two  francs  and  a  half.' 

She  counted  out  the  money,  keeping  an  eye  on  her 
husband.  Captain  Gigli  had  got  as  pale  as  death. 
He  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  telegram,  although  he 
had  finished  reading  it ;  he  seemed  turned  to  stone. 

*  There  is  your  money,'  said  Signora  Gigli. 


ON  GUARD  213 

*  Give  him  five  francs,  Cecilia,  and  a  glass  of 
wine,'  said  Captain  Gigli  in  such  a  changed  voice 
it  made  his  wife  start.  '  He  has  brought  good  news 
— very  good  news  !' 

Signora  Gigli  gave  the  money ;  then  rang  the  bell 
to  call  Grazietta,  who  took  the  lad  to  the  kitchen  for 
the  wine.  Clinging  to  his  father's  knees,  the  child 
said: 

*  Father,  give  me  the  telegram  ;  give  it  to  me  !' 

*  In  a  little — in  a  little,'  said  his  father  gently. 

As  soon  as  they  were  alone.  Captain  Gigli  turned 
towards  Cecilia  solemnly,  took  her  by  the  hand,  and 
said  slowly : 

*  Cecillia,  this  telegram  brings  great  news,  very 
important  news.  This  morning  Victor  Emanuel 
made  his  entrance  into  Venice.  Venice  is  ours; 
it  is  Italian !' 

He  said  no  more.  He  was  a  soldier;  but  his 
brown  skin,  dulled  and  hardened  by  sun  and  weather, 
was  mortally  pale ;  his  proud  eyes,  that  had  looked 
cheerfully  on  fields  of  battle,  were  veiled  with  tears. 
His  wife,  admiring  his  good  heart,  courage,  and 
most  noble  emotion,  said  nothing;  she  was  very 
white  herself. 

'  Venice  is  part  of  Italy,'  Captain  Gigli  said  again. 

'Venice  is  part  of  Italy!'  repeated  the  little  one's 
small  voice.  His  father  lifted  him  up  in  his  arms, 
and  kissed  him  frantically. 

'Venice   is   Italian!    Venice  is  Italian!'    shouted 


214  ON  GUARD 

little   Mario,  laughing,  kissing   his  father,  shuffling 
about,  quite  trembling  with  joy. 

♦     *  Dear   lad — dear   lad !'    said   Gigli,   pressing    his 
child  hard  in  his  arms. 

Cecilia  looked  on  at  this  scene,  smiling.  She  was 
feeling  one  moment  of  pure  delight,  knowing  how 
the  soldier's  Italian  heart  was  beating. 

From  that  moment  Captain  Gigli  had  no  peace. 
He  went  backwards  and  forwards  through  the  house, 
giving  orders  to  Grazietta,  begging  his  wife  to  do 
this  and  that.  He  repeated,  absent-mindedly,  the 
same  phrase  three  or  four  times.  Then  he  raised 
the  child  in  his  arms,  who  began  to  shout  out  every 
time  cheerfully,  in  his  small  voice : 

'  Venice  is  Italian  !  Venice  is  Italian  !' 

Captain  Gigli  went  down  to  his  office,  and  for  a 
couple  of  hours  there  was  a  going  backwards  and 
forwards,  a  moving  about  of  people  getting  orders, 
setting  off  running,  and  coming  back  at  a  run. 
Boats  went  and  came  several  times  from  Nisida 
shore  to  Bagnoli,  and  from  Bagnoli  to  the  island. 
There  was  a  great  movement  set  on  foot  there. 
Everywhere,  all  over  the  island,  the  convicts  deserted 
their  work.  In  the  forge  the  continuous  hammering 
had  stopped,  the  workshops  had  emptied,  and  every- 
where groups  of  soldiers  and  convicts  had  formed. 
At  one  time,  as  Captain  Gigli  was  going  up  again  to 
his  office-room,  his  child  came  out  on  the  balcony 
and  called  out  to  him,  waving  his  handkerchief: 


ON  GUARD  215 

*  Venice  is  Italian !' 

At  four  o'clock  a  roll  of  drums  was  heard  all 
through  the  island.  Out  of  barracks,  houses,  and 
ordnance  workshops  soldiers  and  officers  had  gone 
on  to  the  large  square  in  front  of  the  Governor's 
house.  They  were  all  in  full  dress,  as  on  the  day 
of  the  Statuto,  and  soldiers  were  still  coming  up  a 
few  at  a  time — anyone  who  had  lost  time  poHshing 
his  belt-buckle  or  putting  buttons  on  his  gaiters. 
A  great,  lively  whispering  was  heard  everywhere. 
Then,  slowly,  by  squadrons,  two  by  two,  came  up 
the  convicts,  led  by  the  sergeants  and  warders. 
As  they  came  on  to  the  great  square,  they  fell 
into  order  line  above  line  evenly,  and  by  degrees 
pushed  forward  a  little.  The  soldiers  formed  a 
square  in  front  of  the  Governor's  house,  the 
officers  keeping  in  the  middle.  Behind  the  soldiers 
stretched  out  long  rows  of  convicts,  with  red  caps 
and  green  ones,  colourless  faces,  and  faces  reddened 
by  vitiated  blood,  that  not  even  prison  abstinence 
and  life  in  the  open  air  could  correct. 

The  convicts  spoke  in  whispers  among  them- 
selves, but  with  animation,  and  the  clinking  of  the 
chain  rose  in  the  air,  slight  but  acute — that  iron 
tinkling  that  is  the  characteristic  noise  in  convict 
prisons. 

Suddenly  among  the  soldiers  and  convicts  a  very 
deep  silence  fell,  and  the  square  of  soldiers,  being 
pushed  by  impatient  convicts  wishing  to  get  nearer 


2i6  ON  GUARD 

to  see  and  hear  better,  drew  together  a  Httle.    Captain 
Gigh  had  appeared,  dressed  in  uniform,  which  gave 
him  a  stronger,  more  robust,  and  sterner  look.     On 
his  breast  he  bore  three  medals — one  for  civil  bravery, 
the  other  for  military ;  the  third  commemorated  the 
campaign  of  1859-60.     He   carried  in   one   hand   a 
telegram ;  in  the  other  he  led  the  child,  his  little  son, 
dressed  in  white,  his  curly  hair  coming  out  beneath 
a  white  woollen  cap.     When  the  child  had  seen  his 
father  in  uniform,  he  clutched  his  knees,  screaming, 
because  he  wished  to  insist  on  going  out  with  him ; 
and  his  kind  father,  in  that  hour  of  satisfaction  and 
tenderness,  had  not  said  no  to  him.     Cecilia  in  haste 
and  flurry  had  to  dress  him  in  his  fine  white  frock, 
which  gave  a  festive  air  to  his  gentle  face  under  the 
white  cap  he  was  so  proud  of.     The  small  boy  was 
triumphantly  hanging  on  to  his  father's  hand,  and  he 
often   looked   at  him,    his   eyes   shining   with  love, 
proud  of  being  led  about,  well  dressed,  as  if  he  was 
a  little  man.     His  mother's  hands  trembled  as  she 
quickly  dressed  him,  that  solemn  hour  moved  her  so. 
Before  she  saw  him  off,  holding  his  father's  hand, 
she   gave  him   a   kiss   on   the  forehead  among   the 
chestnut  curls — a  kiss  that  seemed  a  thought  she  put 
into  the  child's  mind.     Then  while  husband  and  son 
went  downstairs  to   the   square,  she   half  shut  the 
balcony  Venetians  and  hid  behind  them  to  see  the 
spectacle  herself  unseen.     She  got  a  sort  of  shock, 
and  almost  drew  back  with  a  sensation  of  fear.     The 


ON  GUARD  217 

vast  square,  the  largest  in  Nisida,  was  full ;  the  people 
overflowed  it,  even  on  to  the  slopes  towards  Bagnoli. 
In  the  middle  the  square  of  soldiers  had  pressed 
together  still  more,  and  formed  a  dull  blue  streak 
from  their  cloaks.  All  around  was  the  large  popula- 
tion of  convicts,  a  great  crowd,  dressed  in  rough 
linen  in  all  shades  of  brick-red,  bright,  dull,  and 
faded ;  then  all  the  officials  on  the  island  and  prison 
contractors,  those  who  live  on  and  for  the  convict 
prison.  In  one  corner,  trying  to  keep  away  from 
that  queer  crowd,  was  a  group  of  women,  officers' 
and  contractors'  wives.  While  in  the  square  there 
arose  an  indistinct  rustle  from  the  great  crowd 
assembled  there,  one  guessed  and  felt  that  all  the 
rest  of  the  island — city  and  country,  houses  and 
prisons,  streets  and  squares — was  empty,  without  a 
soul ;  one  felt  that  the  whole  life  of  Nisida  was  con- 
centrated in  that  square,  and  that  all  the  rest  was 
deserted  land. 

On  Captain  Gigli's  appearance  there  was  a  universal 
hush  ;  the  square  of  soldiers  widened  out  a  little,  and 
he  went  into  it,  still  holding  his  child  by  the  hand, 
and  stood  there,  isolated,  looking  the  whole  crowd  in 
the  face,  whilst  officers,  soldiers,  and  convicts,  every 
one,  respectable  and  disreputable,  honest  and  criminal, 
turned  their  faces  to  him,  almost  blanched  suddenly 
from  waiting  for  a  great  moment.  He  made  a  sign  ; 
the  standard-bearer  came  out  from  the  ranks  and 
went   to   stand   on   his  left,   unfolding  and   slightly 


2i8  ON  GUARD 

raising  the  flag  of  Italy.  Captain  Gigli,  before  speak- 
ing, turned  and  saluted  it,  putting  his  hand  to  his 
cap ;  the  soldiers  presented  arms,  and  gradually  all 
the  convicts,  in  green  and  red  caps,  uncovered  their 
heads,  and  stood  thus  bareheaded  in  front  of  the 
Italian  flag  fluttering  in  the  breeze.  Last  of  all,  the 
child,  slowly,  looking  in  his  father's  eyes,  took  off  his 
vv^hite  cap,  and  stood  bareheaded  in  the  middle  of 
the  square.  A  great  breath  of  emotion  passed  over 
all,  and  Captain  Gigli's  face  got  pale  as  he  opened 
his  lips  to  speak.     All  were  looking  at  him — all. 

Cecilia,  from  her  balcony,  seeing  that  her  husband 
was  about  to  speak,  drew  back  a  little.  That  great 
crowd  of  people,  looking  so  intently  at  the  Governor ; 
that  deep  hedge  of  bareheaded  convicts,  which  out- 
numbered and  pressed  closer  and  closer  on  the  little 
square  of  soldiers ;  and  the  child  in  the  middle, 
making  a  short  white  blot,  all  made  her  shiver.  But 
more  than  anything  it  was  the  very  great,  the  pro- 
found, silence. 

*  Officers  and  men,'  Captain  Gigli  began,  in  a 
strong  but  rather  subdued  voice,  *  to-day  to  Nisida 
island,  as  to  every  city  in  Italy,  great  news  has  come. 
Our  King,  our  General,  the  head  of  our  army,  Victor 
Emanuel,  to-day  has  made  his  entry  into  Venice. 
Venice  is  ours.' 

To  the  tremor  of  his  sonorous  voice,  to  his 
emotion,  a  great  shout  replied,  come  from  the 
mouths  of  soldiers  and  officers ;  there  was  a  single 


ON  GUARD  219 

word,  said  distinctly  and  sharply,  amidst  other  con- 
fused ones,  a  word  that  always  came  up   again — 

*  Venice ' — '  Venice.' 

*  We  have  a  right  to  feel  carried  away,  all  of  us,' 
Captain  Gigli  went  on  as  the  noise  quieted  down, 

*  for  the  great  dream  of  Italian  unity,  for  which 
thousands  of  men  gave  their  whole  hearts  and  minds, 
for  which  thousands  of  men  put  down  their  lives  on 
the  field  of  battle,  for  which  we  would  all  give  it  still 
— all  of  us,  survivors  and  new  men,  old  and  young 
— because,  you  see,  the  great  dream  of  unity  goes 
on  coming  true,  with  a  newer,  stronger  force.  Oh, 
Venice — Venice!  You  were  the  country's  sorrow. 
She  mourned  for  you ;  you  were  not  dead,  but  you 
were  stolen ;  you  were  her  cross — you,  lovely,  great, 
glorious,  a  miracle  of  art  and  an  Italian  fortress, 
were  in  the  hands  of  the  enemy.  No  one  could 
mention  you  without  weeping  inwardly ;  all  hearts 
flew  to  you ;  our  women  bore  on  their  breasts  the 
black  pearl  necklaces  called  lacrime  di  Venezia, 
To-day  no  one  thinks  of  you  without  a  quiver  of  affec- 
tion, or  says  your  name,  Venice,  without  a  feeling 
of  deep  happiness  at  being  soldiers  and  Italians.' 

A  loud  murmur  of  approval  ran  through  officers 
and  men.  The  standard-bearer  waved  the  flag.  The 
convicts  looked  on  bareheaded  and  taciturn ;  they 
were  thoughtful,  as  if  waiting. 

*  I  think,'  Captain  Gigli  proceeded  to  say  more 
slowly,  *  that  all  of  you,  civil  servants  and  officials. 


220  ON  GUARD 

who  work  in  an  obscure  but  worthy  way  for  our 
country,  you  who  do  not  scorn,  since  any  service 
nobly  carried  out  is  noble,  to  be  at  the  call  of  punitive 
justice — I  think  you,  Italian  patriots,  come  from  all 
the  provinces  of  Italy  to  this  lonely  spot,  which  is  a 
place  of  punishment — I  believe  you  all  rejoice  that 
Venice  is  ours.  The  telegram  that  announces  the 
glad  news  adds  that  Victor  Emanuel's  march  into 
Venice  was  a  touching,  magnificent  sight ;  men  of 
Venice  shouted  and  wept  with  emotion ;  women 
held  out  their  babes  to  the  King  of  Italy,  to  Victor 
Emanuel,  for  himi  to  bless  them.  What  a  grand 
thing,  my  friends,  is  this  that  has  happened  to-day ! 
You,  of  course,  cannot  hear  it  without  happy  pride 
bringing  tears  to  your  eyes.' 

All  eyes  around  gave  applause.  Cecilia,  behind 
the  Venetians,  holding  on  to  the  bars  not  to  fall,  kept 
a  handkerchief  at  her  mouth  to  choke  her  sobs. 
There  was  a  minute's  pause  and  something  like  a 
surging  among  the  crowd ;  soldiers  and  officers 
seemed  to  be  crushed  round  Captain  Gigli ;  the 
convicts  pressed  forward,  dumbly,  their  eyes  wide 
open,  fixed  on  the  Governor  of  the  prison.  He  was 
gazing  at  them,  or,  rather,  with  a  single  glance 
round  he  looked  at  them  all,  as  if  wanting  to  guess 
the  secrets  of  their  souls. 

'Oh,  convicts!'  he  said  in  a  sonorous  voice,  that 
had  an  echo  in  all  ears  and  hearts — 'convicts,  I 
wished  that  you  also,  standing  in  front  of  the  Italian 


ON  GUARD  221 

flag,  should  hear  that  Venice  is  ours.  Everywhere, 
in  cities  and  villages,  hamlets  and  towns,  peasant 
huts  and  ballad-singers'  homes,  wherever  there  is  an 
Italian,  rich  or  poor,  there  will  be  joy  to-day ;  and 
everywhere,  in  far-off  countries  of  Europe,  in  the 
distant  lands  of  America  and  Australia,  near  the  Pole 
and  under  the  tropics — everywhere  wherever  there  is 
an  Italian  heart,  lost  on  the  sea  or  wandering  in  the 
deserts,  there  will  be  joy  when  the  news  comes  that 
Venice  is  ours.  Oh,  convicts !  I  did  not  want  to 
exclude  you  from  the  common  law  of  thankfulness. 
You  are  murderers  and  thieves ;  you  have  slain  with 
steel  and  poison  ;  you  have  committed  arson,  stolen, 
changed  your  men's  hearts  to  the  crooked  instincts 
of  brutes.  The  law  of  the  land  wisely,  in  the  name  of 
King  and  people,  punishes  you  by  its  magistrates; 
punishes  you,  taking  you  out  of  the  society  of  honest 
people,  and  putting  you  in  irons — putting  you  out 
of  the  way  of  doing  more  harm  ;  it  punishes  you, 
condemning  you  to  hard  labour,  wisely  seeking  to 
make  you  penitent  by  chastisement.  But  where  the 
law  of  the  State  ends  the  humane  Christian  law 
begins — an  indulgent,  merciful  one.  We  are  severe, 
not  inhuman.  Penitence  purifies,  so  does  repentance. 
Every  day  more  that  you  spend  in  the  prison,  work- 
ing and  suffering,  blots  out  a  part  of  your  sin.  Many 
of  you  will  leave  this  in  three  years,  ten,  or  fifteen  ; 
you  will  go  bearing  with  you,  conquered  by  severe 
penitence  and    the    habit   of    daily    repentance,   a 


222  ON  GUARD 

humane  and  pitiful  heart.  I  believe  you  can  all 
become  good  men ;  I  believe  also  that  those  who  will 
have  to  stay  here  all  their  lives  may  become  so. 
Their  sin  has  been  great,  but  Divine  mercy  and 
human  mercy  are  so  great !  I  think  the  power  of 
goodness  is  great  enough  to  change  you  altogether  ; 
I  believe  in  all  the  miracles  of  sentiment.  Well, 
to-day  I  forget  the  past — I  forget  the  law,  the  stern 
judgment.  There  should  be  no  dissatisfied  hearts 
here  to-day.  This  is  a  great  day.  Forget  the  past 
and  your  black  sin ;  forget  that  you  are  outside 
the  law  and  society ;  forget  your  remorse  and  peni- 
tence. Consider  to-day  a  national  festival ;  your 
own  country's  conquest  made  by  your  native  land. 
You  are  Italians,  too.  Forget  everything  but  that 
you  are  Italians,  every  one  of  you.' 

He  stopped  speaking,  and  the  panting  of  a  hundred 
breasts  could  be  heard  in  the  deep  silence ;  some 
were  sobbing,  holding  their  heads  down.  Behind  the 
Venetians  Cecilia  was  crying  silently  ;  big  warm  tears 
fell.  With  a  vague  gesture.  Captain  Gigli  stopped 
speaking,  looking  now  at  the  flag  fixedly.  But  above 
the  panting  of  troubled  breasts,  the  uncontrollable 
sobs,  a  feeble,  thin,  small  voice  shouted  : 

*  Hurrah  for  Venice !' 

It  was  the  child  crying  out  at  his  father's  side, 
waving  his  white  cap.  With  his  short,  pale  face 
and  great  shining  eyes,  he  was  rising  on  tiptoe, 
waving  his  arms,  to  let  himself  be  seen  and  heard. 


ON  GUARD  223 

The  child  in  white  had  given  the  word.  Every  one 
of  them,  soldiers  and  officers,  clerks,  and  staff,  all 
the  convicts,  sentenced  for  life  or  a  term,  young  or 
old,  assassins,  thieves,  incendiaries  —  all  of  them 
shouted  with  the  small  boy  in  white ;  they  shouted 
with  all  their  hearts,  making  a  thundering  noise  that 
spread  all  over  the  island  and  seemed  to  shake  it  to 
its  foundations — *  Hurrah  for  Venice  !' 

As  the  first  hours  of  darkness  fell  on  Nisida  the 
illuminations  began.  There  were  small  lanterns  made 
of  transparent  paper,  with  a  tiny  light  inside,  some 
were  of  three  colours — white,  red,  and  green — others 
were  arranged  in  groups  of  three — one  white,  one 
red,  another  green — forming  the  national  colours. 
There  were  some  everywhere  in  lines,  festoons,  and 
clusters ;  along  the  balcony  railings,  hung  at  window 
projections,  under  door  arches,  and  cornices  of  gate- 
ways; they  were  tied  to  acacia  boughs  along  Nisida's 
streets,  and  even  to  iron  gratings  of  the  windows 
of  the  prison,  where  convicts  were  sent  as  a  punish- 
ment; that  was  on  the  side  of  the  island  looking 
towards  Bagnoli.  On  a  high  pole,  made  of  small 
lamps  in  three  colours,  was  the  Star  of  Italy.  It 
needed  two  or  three  hours'  work  to  set  the  illumina- 
tions in  their  place ;  convicts  and  soldiers  had 
fraternized  to  do  it,  going  up  ladders,  standing  on 
window-sills,  climbing  like  squirrels,  carrying  around 
long  boards  covered  with  already  lighted  lanterns, 


224  ON  GUARD 

or  pulling  up  from  the  second  floor  baskets  full  of 
illuminations.  Nothing  was  heard  but  cheerful 
shouts  giving  directions,  and  long  bursts  of  laughter 
when  a  convict  or  a  soldier  slipped  or  fell  along  a 
gateway  arch  ;  it  was  a  merry  clamour  that  ended  in 
a  great  burst  of  applause  when  the  whole  of  one  side 
of  a  house  got  illuminated.  By  eight  in  the  evening 
the  whole  island  sparkled  like  a  jewel  rising  out  of 
the  sea  ;  it  looked  like  an  immense  raft  going  placidly 
over  the  bay  some  holiday  evening,  all  lighted  up 
with  the  patriotic  three  colours,  which  threw  clear, 
lively  tints  on  the  whitewash  of  the  buildings  and 
blackness  of  the  country  part  —  a  lighted-up  raft 
whence  in  the  silence  of  the  night  came  songs  and 
music. 

Indeed,  the  music  began  at  eight  o'clock;  it 
was  the  band  of  the  soldiers  quartered  at  Nisida ; 
which  happened  to  be  short  of  five  or  six  bandsmen, 
but  they  had  been  summoned  from  Naples,  from  the 
Pizzofalcone  Barracks,  on  purpose  to  add  to  it  for 
that  evening.  The  band  was  posted  on  the  great 
square ;  a  crowd  of  soldiers  and  convicts  surrounded 
it ;  all  were  at  liberty  that  evening.  Captain  Gigli 
had  had  double  rations  served  out  to  the  soldiers 
and  double  allowance  to  the  convicts,  and  he  gave 
orders  to  officers  and  warders  to  look  after  the 
soldiers  and  convicts,  but  to  let  them  amuse  them- 
selves. Whenever  the  band  came  on  to  the  square, 
cheerful  shouts  greeted  them :  '  The  Royal  March  ! 


ON  GUARD  225 

Royal  March !'  *  The  National  Hymn  !  National 
Hymn  !' 

About  twenty  times  the  Royal  March,  so  resound- 
ing in  its  first  trumpet-calls,  which  sound  like  a 
summons  to  war,  one  that  grows  so  in  force  when 
taken  up  again,  came  time  about  with  Garibaldi's 
Hymn,  that  intoxicating,  thrilling  melody.  Each 
time  that  the  Royal  March  and  Garibaldi's  Hymn 
sounded  on  trumpets  and  drums  a  great  yell  came 
from  these  throats,  and  spread  out  resoundingly  all 
over  the  island.  Sometimes  they  shouted,  *  Long  live 
Victor  Emanuel !'  or,  with  a  rumble  like  thunder, 
came  the  other  shout, '  Hurrah  for  Garibaldi !'  Then 
the  boom  began  again,  with  hundreds  of  voices  shout- 
ing, *  Hurrah  for  Italy !' 

Only  after  an  hour's  playing  were  the  trumpets 
allowed  from  fatigue  to  give  over  sounding  the  Royal 
March  and  Garibaldi's  Hymn.  They  began  to  play 
popular  pieces  with  variations  founded  on  warlike  or 
familiar  songs,  a  style  much  in  fashion  then.  Groups 
of  soldiers  and  convicts  accompanied  the  band  as  it 
played  *  Bella  Gigogin,'  or  *  Fenesta  che  Lucivi,'  all 
beginning  to  sing  together ;  some  even  managed  to 
make  their  voices  ring  out  splendidly,  and  when  they 
got  to  the  still  famous  *  Addio,  Rosina,  addio !'  there 
was  a  concert  in  unison  with  voices  in  the  upper  and 
lower  chords,  some  singing  in  their  throats,  without 
saying  the  words,  as  if  playing  accompaniments. 

'Again  !  again!'  they  shouted  when  they  wanted 

15 


226  ON  GUARD 

to  hear  a  piece  a  second  time.  Sometimes  one  of 
the  bandsmen  disappeared  and  went  into  the 
Governor's  house,  to  the  kitchen,  where  Grazietta 
gave  him  a  glass  of  wine ;  then  he  went  back  to  the 
square,  to  play  with  more  energy.  There  was  no 
wine  given  to  the  soldiers  and  convicts,  but  they 
were  all  excited  by  the  lights,  open  air,  music  and 
singing,  their  own  voices,  and  they  seemed  taken 
with  a  queer  intoxication.  Suddenly  the  band  played 
a  polka. 

*  Hold  me  up!  hold  me  up!'  the  child  said  to 
Sciurillo. 

Hanging  on  to  Rocco  Traetta's  hand,  the  child 
had  followed  the  whole  progress  of  the  illuminations, 
clapping  his  little  hands  for  joy  before  the  Star  of 
Italy,  in  three  colours.  He  wandered  all  over  the 
island  without  getting  tired,  coming  back  frequently 
under  his  mother's  balcony.  She  appeared,  and  he 
called  up  to  her : 

'  Mamma  dear !  mamma  dear !' 

*  Are  you  coming  up  ?' 

*  No,  no ;  I  am  going  away.  Sciurillo  is  carrying 
me.' 

'  Have  no  fear  :  I  am  taking  care  of  him,'  said  the 
convict. 

Sometimes,  as  he  was  carrying  him  about,  Rocco 
Traetta  asked  him : 

*  Are  you  not  cold,  sir  ?' 

*  I  am  quite  warm,'  said  the  boy. 


ON  GUARD  227 

When  they  were  singing  in  the  square,  he,  too, 
raised  his  head  and  thin  Httle  voice :  he  repeated  the 
chorus  of  *  Bella  Gigogin '  and  '  L'  armata  se  ne  va ' ; 
but  when  he  heard  the  sound  of  the  polka,  he  began 
to  say  insistently : 

'  Sciurillo,  Sciurillo,  lift  me  up  !' 

Rocco  Traetta,  thinking  that  he  was  tired,  lifted 
him  up  in  his  powerful  arms,  balancing  him  on  one 
shoulder,  high  up,  where  Mario  laughed  and  kicked 
his  little  feet  against  his  breast. 

*  Make  me  dance,  Sciurillo  !' 

Then,  trying  to  make  room  with  his  elbows,  still 
holding  the  boy  up,  Rocco  Traetta  began  to  wheel 
round  slowly,  slowly,  to  the  sound  of  the  polka.  This 
was  the  signal.  Couples  of  soldiers  quickly  started. 
They  held  each  other  by  the  waist,  very  tight ;  one 
of  them  clutched  his  friend's  cloak  at  the  back, 
holding  it  tight  in  his  fist.  They  danced  with  know- 
ing slowness,  their  legs  rather  wide  apart,  the  cap 
thrown  back  off  the  forehead,  the  chin  resting  on  the 
other  man's  shoulder.  To  begin  with  the  convicts 
did  not  join  in ;  they  only  looked  on.  However,  as 
Rocco  Traetta  was  still  triumphantly  carrying  the 
child,  who  was  laughing,  straight  on,  some  convict 
couples  started,  sliding  queerly  into  the  polka. 
Some  young  fellows  had  led  a  fast  life  in  Naples, 
and  knew  how  to  dance  quite  well.  They  did  not 
mind  their  chain,  though  it  was  heavy  and  jangled  ; 
no  one  heard  the  iron  clatter.    Other  convicts  formed 

15—2 


2i8  ON  GUARD 

into  rings  and  wheeled  round,  laughing,  shouting, 
dancing,  rising  on  tiptoe,  as  the  band  still  quickened 
the  time.  Over  the  heads  of  them  all,  the  child 
wheeled  about,  held  high  in  Sciurillo's  arms,  and 
the  white-clad  boy  gave  light  claps  on  the  man's 
red  hair,  laughing  in  the  clamour  and  bright  light  of 
that  night. 


In  the  half-darkness  of  the  Httle  room — for  the 
shutters  were  nearly  closed — the  mother  was  telling 
a  fairy  tale,  leaning  over  the  small  invalid's  bed, 
speaking  in  a  whisper  only — a  breath  of  a  voice. 
The  sick  child  listened,  his  eyes  wide  open,  burning 
with  fever,  his  scarlet,  rather  swollen,  dry  lips  apart, 
his  breath  coming  out  of  them  in  a  wheezing 
way. 

For  five  days  diphtheria  had  clutched  at  his 
swollen  throat,  which  was  covered  with  malignant 
white  pustules.  Twice  a  day,  sometimes  even  thrice. 
Dr.  Caracciolo  came  to  see  the  child;  he  gave  him 
quinine  and  valerian  to  try  to  bring  down  the  high 
degree  of  fever,  and  went  on  burning  his  throat 
with  caustic  to  remove  the  white  spots,  which  drew 
sorrowful  cries  from  the  small  patient. 

Cecilia  stood  by  at  the  operation,  white,  dumb, 
and  rigid.  She  bit  her  lips  not  to  cry  out.  Only 
now  and  then  she  said,  with  great  pity  in  her 
voice : 

'  My  darling !  my  darling  son  !' 

However,  an  hour  after  the  operation,  when  the 


230  ON  GUARD 

smarting  of  the  caustic  had  gone  off  a  little,  the  child 
breathed  more  freely,  the  heat  of  the  fever  went 
down,  he  slumbered  without  that  whistle  in  his 
breathing  that  agonized  his  mother's  heart.  He 
demanded  something  to  drink  and  asked  eagerly  for 
food.  They  gave  him  strong  soup  with  beaten  eggs 
and  a  glass  of  marsala :  for  the  new  medical  theory 
is  that  in  acute  blood-poisoning  the  strength  of  the 
body  is  to  be  kept  up.  It  was  a  comfort  to  his 
mother  to  see  him  eating  voraciously  and  drinking 
with  eager  thirst,  and  when  he  sank  to  sleep  again 
she  leant  her  head  on  the  white  pillow  where  her  little 
one's  was. 

He  would  sleep  for  an  hour  quietly  enough,  his 
mother  counting  over  the  minutes  of  that  refreshing 
sleep,  feeling  happy  if  it  lasted  long.  She  thought 
even  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  half  an  hour  more  was 
a  sign  of  recovery.  Suddenly  the  child  opened  his 
eyes  again  placidly,  and  felt  for  his  mother's  face 
with  his  little  perspiring  hands. 

*  Here  I  am,  dear.     How  do  you  feel  ?' 

'Quite  well,'  he  invariably  answered,  smiling  a 
little. 

Then  they  said  no  more.  Cecilia  dried  the  child's 
moist  forehead  and  hands  with  her  fine  handkerchief, 
patting  his  hands  and  kissing  them  gently.  The 
little  hand  rested  in  his  mother's  for  a  long  time, 
and  deep  silence  was  in  the  room. 

'  Tell  me  a  story,  mother,'  said  the  child  feebly. 


ON  GUARD  231 

Very  softly,  leaning  over  his  bed,  Cecilia  told  him 
a  fairy  tale.     Always  varying  it,  sometimes  she  in- 
vented even,  with  the  heightened  imagination  of  an 
uneasy  mother.     She  made  up  queer  medleys  about 
old  fairies  and  little  queens  which  made  the  small 
invalid  open  his  eyes  wide;  it  amused  him  immensely. 
Sometimes,  while  the  mother  was  telling  her  son  a 
fairy  tale,  the  father  came  in.     He  went  in  quietly, 
and  came  to  lean  over  the  bed  at  the  top,  trying  to 
get  accustomed  to  the  darkness.     Mario  smiled  to 
him  silently  in  the  shadow,  getting  his  mother  to 
finish  the  story.      Gigli  listened  to  that  wonderful 
story  too,  not  daring  to  interrupt ;  and  accustomed 
now  to  the  darkness,  he  gazed  in  his  sick   child's 
eyes.     With  the  triumph  of  beauty  and  virtue,  the 
punishment  of  ugliness   and   ill-conduct,  the   story 
ended,  and  the  child  nodded  his  head,  satisfied  and 
pleased. 

*  How  is  he  now  ?'  Captain  Gigli  asked  his  wife. 

*  I  am  well,'  the  little  boy  answered,  before  his 
mother  could  do  so. 

*  He  always  says  that,  poor  little  fellow !'  said 
Cecilia,  petting  his  moist  curls.  '  He  says  it  to  make 
us  keep  up  heart.' 

*  But  is  he  not  doing  well  ?'  asked  his  father 
anxiously,  more  uneasy  in  his  mind  than  appeared. 

*  Just  so-so,'  said  the  mother,  arranging  the 
pillows. 

They  stood  there  silent  and  in  low  spirits.     Gigli, 


232  ON  GUARD 

being  in  anguish  himself,  guessed  at  a  part  of  her 
agony. 

'  You  would  like  to  carry  him  off,  would  you  not  ?' 
he  asked  her,  so  as  to  get  her  out  of  her  silence, 
for  she  seemed  more  crushed  and  knocked  down  than 
her  sick  child. 

*  Yes,  I  would.' 

'The  doctor  says  that  it  can't  be  done,'  the 
husband  remarked  timidly. 

*  He  can't  be  moved,  I  know,'  she  replied,  flinging 
up  her  arms  desperately. 

*  I  am  quite  well  here,  mother,'  said  Mario. 

'  Poor  little  chap  !  poor  chap  !'  said  his  father. 
Cecilia  went  up  close  to  her  husband  and  said  to 
him  in  a  whisper  : 

'  Promise  me — promise ' 

*  I  promise  you  anything,  Cecilia  dear.' 

*  Promise  me  that  whenever  he  is  better — when- 
ever we  can  move  him — you  will  let  me  go  with  him 
to  Naples.     Promise.' 

'  Yes,  my  dear,  I  will,'  said  Gigli,  petting  her  as  he 
did  the  child. 

*  Do  you  promise  me  ?' 
'  Yes,  I  do.' 

For  he  understood  that  in  this  serious  illness  of 
the  child's  her  invincible  horror  of  the  prison  had 
risen  again  in  her  heart. 

In  the  evening  the  child  indeed  got  worse,  as  all 
sick  of  sharp  or  lingering  illnesses  are  apt   to   do. 


ON  GUARD  233 

His  throat  got  contracted,  his  breathing  laboured;  he 
became  heated,  uneasy,  and  rolled  about  continually. 
Again  on  the  red  membrane  of  the  throat  the  white 
blotches  came  rising  slowly,  forming  again  after  the 
evening  application  of  caustic.  He  hardly  had  a 
moment's  peace  ;  his  mother  shared  his  uneasiness. 
The  voices  of  the  watching  sentinels,  calling  and 
answering  each  other,  made  the  little  body,  burnt 
up  by  fever,  give  a  start.  She  got  nightmare  again 
from  these  voices  unfailingly  breaking  the  silence  of 
the  night :  they  troubled  the  repose  of  tired  folk  and 
the  light  slumbers  of  the  sick.  It  got  to  be  that 
when  she  felt  that  *  All'  erta,  sentinella !'  was  coming, 
she  even  put  her  hands  over  the  little  one's  ears,  not 
to  let  him  hear. 

*  It  doesn't  matter,  really,'  he  said,  turning  round 
and  round,  getting  no  repose. 

'  Oh,  this  prison — this  prison !'  she  said,  half  to 
herself. 

*  It  does  not  matter,'  the  child  insisted,  fanning  his 
burning  little  body  with  the  sheets.  His  nights  were 
so  bad  and  so  long. 

Cecilia  would  not  move  a  hair's-breadth  from  her 
son's  bed.  Although  her  husband  begged  and  en- 
treated her  to  let  him  watch  himself,  and  Grazietta 
offered  frequently  to  sit  up,  it  was  no  use.  Cecilia 
refused  to  move ;  her  whole  life  was  concentrated  on 
that  sick  child's  bedside.  Pallid,  dumb,  in  a  dark 
gown  tied  at  the  waist  by  a  nun's  girdle,  in  slippers 


234  ON  GUARD 

SO  as  to  make  no  noise,  she  stayed,  seated  beside 
the  bed,  not  answering  her  husband's  or  Grazietta's 
imploring  requests. 

*  I  am  resting  here,'  she  only  answered,  pointing 
out  the  boy's  white  pillow. 

They  had  to  leave  her.  They  went  off,  shaking 
their  heads — Captain  Gigli  troubled  in  his  fatherly 
heart,  the  servant  full  of  instinctive,  motherly  pity. 
But  what  nights  they  were !  The  fever  got  stronger  ; 
often  the  child,  feeling  suffocated,  asked  to  be  lifted. 
Cecilia  wrapped  him  in  blankets  and  sheets,  and 
lifted  him  to  sit  straight  up  in  her  arms ;  he  could 
breathe  when  he  leant  his  head  on  his  mother's 
shoulder.  She  carried  him  up  and  down,  singing, 
poor  thing  !  as  desolate  mothers  do,  vainly  trying  to 
soothe  a  sick  child.  Sometimes  the  little  fellow, 
still  lying  in  her  arms,  went  off  into  a  light  sleep. 

Although  she  saw  that  he  had  gone  to  sleep,  she 
dared  not  lay  him  in  the  bed  yet,  and  went  on 
walking  up  and  down  with  him  slowly,  the  child 
leaning  heavily  on  her  shoulder.  Then,  fearing  to 
let  him  sleep  thus,  sitting  up  in  an  uncomfortable 
attitude,  in  case  it  did  him  harm,  she  came,  softly, 
close  to  the  bed,  and  bent  over  to  lay  him  down ; 
but  at  the  first  movement  the  child  made  a  little 
complaint  in  his  light  sleep. 

*  No,  no !'  she  said,  getting  up,  beginning  to  walk 
about  again. 

Sometimes  she  managed  to  lay  him  very  carefully 


ON  GUARD  235 

in  the  bed,  and  he  let  his  head  down  on  the  pillow 
so  much  at  random,  still  with  his  eyes  shut,  that  the 
mother  shivered  with  terror  almost,  at  a  frightful 
idea.  If  he  went  on  sleeping,  she  put  down  the 
lamp  further,  and  went  back  to  the  bed  to  lean  her 
head  on  the  pillow,  quite  worn  out.  She  did  not 
sleep — no,  it  was  only  a  troubled  half-sleep  which  the 
sentinels'  shouts  interrupted,  a  snooze  begun  again 
by  starts.  Meanwhile  the  baby,  being  uneasy, 
wakened,  but,  seeing  his  mother  sleeping,  said 
nothing ;  he  kept  silent,  his  eyes  wide  open,  gazing 
at  the  shadows  on  the  ceiling.  Only  when  the 
choking  came  on  worse  he  began  to  whimper  and 
cry,  raising  himself  in  bed  as  if  to  drink  in  the  air  he 
was  losing.  At  once  she  wakened  up  in  a  great 
state,  thinking  that  she  had  slept  too  long,  almost 
asking  her  child's  pardon. 

*  Darling — my  darling  !' 

She  could  say  nothing  else  to  comfort  him  or  to 
relieve  him.  How  long  these  nights  were !  She 
longed  for  dawn  with  all  her  strength,  so  that  the 
child's  long  torture  and  her  own  would  be  over, 
so  that  the  lugubrious  voices  of  the  prison-watchers 
should  cease. 

The  air  got  cold  about  five  in  the  morning,  some 
streaks  of  light  began  to  show  behind  the  shutters, 
and  the  child  fell  into  a  deep  stupor.  She  kept 
looking  at  him,  stock-still,  as  if  magnetizing  him,  so 
that  he  should  sleep  quietly,  sleep  longer.     From 


236  ON  GUARD 

this  intensity  of  will-power  her  motherly  eyelids  got 
tired  ;  she  laid  down  her  head,  but  still  started  up, 
trembling,  two  or  three  times,  thinking  she  had 
heard  her  child  cry.  But,  half  asleep  and  half 
awake,  she  still  saw  him,  slumbering  deeply,  and 
she  herself  fell  into  the  profound,  intense  sleep 
people  get  into  who  have  used  up  their  moral  and 
physical  strength  to  an  exceptional  extent. 

When,  at  eight  o'clock.  Dr.  Caracciolo  came,  on 
his  morning  round,  he  found  mother  and  son  asleep 
close  to  each  other,  both  pale. 

'How  did  he  pass  the  night?'  asked  the  doctor, 
as  he  made  his  preparations  for  applying  the 
caustic. 

*  He  has  had  a  bad  night,'  said  the  mother. 

*  He  was  sleeping  just  now.' 

*  Yes,  but  he  was  ill  until  five  o'clock.' 

The  doctor  put  his  head  down  a  little,  getting 
ready  the  brush. 

'  It  is  this  prison !'  said  the  despairing  mother. 

*  No,  no,'  the  doctor  went  on  telling  her ;  *  there 
is  diphtheria  at  Naples,  too.' 

What  did  it  matter  to  her  ?  She  gave  the  blame 
of  all  her  anguish  to  the  prison,  so  that  from  the 
first  day  of  Mario's  illness  she  gave  Grazietta  orders 
not  to  let  any  convict  into  the  house,  forbade  it  in 
such  a  burst  of  anger  and  grief  that  Grazietta  was 
frightened ;  and  to  be  able  to  give  her  husband,  the 
convict,  a  little  dinner,  she  told  him  not  to  come  to 


ON  GUARD  237 

the  kitchen  grating  as  usual,  but  to  wait  for  her  at  a 
certain  place  in  the  island,  and  she  would  bring  him 
food  in  a  covered  dish. 

*  Neither  your  husband,  nor  Gennaro  Campanile, 
nor  Rocco  Traetta — no  one,  no  one!'  Cecilia  cried 
out,  as  if  she  feared  the  evil-eye. 

Still,  Rocco  Traetta,  from  the  day  that  the  boy's 
illness  began,  wandered  constantly  round  the  house. 
He  tried  to  get  in  the  first  day,  but  Grazietta  told 
him,  roughly  and  harshly : 

'  The  signora  wants  no  convicts  in  the  house  1' 

He  stood  in  the  doorway,  dazed. 

'  But  how  is  he — how  is  the  little  one  ?'  he  asked, 
with  a  sob  in  his  voice. 

*  Very  ill.  We  are  praying  to  God  to  make  him 
well.' 

*We  must  pray  to  God,'  replied  Rocco  Traetta 
humbly. 

Morning  and  evening  he  ran  away  from  the  work 
that  he  was  set  to  do,  and  wandered  round  the 
child's  house,  waiting  till  someone  came  to  make 
inquiries  from.  Punishment  after  punishment  was 
showered  on  his  head :  he  did  not  care ;  he  forgot 
to  eat  and  sleep  just  to  be  able  to  look  at  that 
balcony  with  the  doors  half  shut  in  the  daytime, 
to  see  a  ray  of  light  filtering  through  in  the  evening. 

*  How  is  he  ?  how  is  he  ?'  he  said  to  Grazietta 
every  time  that  he  came  across  her,  by  lying  in  wait 
for  her. 


238  ON  GUARD 

'  Sometimes  he  is  better,  then  he  gets  worse ;  one 
can't  make  it  out.     We  must  hope  in  the  Madonna.' 

*  I  trust  in  the  Madonna.' 

One  day  he  accosted  Dr.  Caracciolo  also.  Rocco 
Traetta  had  never  been  ill,  so  that  the  prison  doctor 
had  had  no  opportunity  of  treating  him.  And,  all 
of  a  sudden,  Rocco  stood  in  front  of  him,  and  said 
in  a  low  voice  : 

'  How  is  little  Mario  ?  how  is  he  now  ?' 

*  What  does  it  matter  to  you  ?'  said  the  doctor, 
who  was  rather  bluff,  and  in  the  habit  of  treating 
the  convicts  roughly. 

*  I  was  his  servant,  sir ;  I  was  little  master's 
servant !' 

Really,  as  he  said  so,  he  was  so  humble  and  in 
earnest  that  the  doctor  examined  him  narrowly,  not 
being  much  accustomed  to  observe  such  feelings  in 
convicts. 

*  He  is  so-and-so,'  he  then  said  in  a  grumbling 
way. 

*  But  does  he  get  better  ?  You  ought  to  make 
him  well,  sir.' 

*That  is  what  I  hope  to  do,'  said  the  doctor, 
passing  on. 

But  Rocco  Traetta's  great  agony  was  not  getting 
into  the  house.  Every  time  Signora  Gigli  showed 
behind  the  balcony  windows,  he  appeared  at  a 
corner  of  the  square,  came  forward,  pulling  off  his 
red  cap,  and  bowed  two  or  three  times,  turning  such 


ON  GUARD  239 

an  imploring  glance  on  her  that  any  indifferent 
person  would  have  been  affected  by  it.  But  she  did 
not  see  him,  or  did  not  choose  to,  for  she  turned 
her  head  another  way  and  drew  back  at  once,  as 
if  called  for  from  within.  He  went  away  slowly, 
as  if  he  were  keeping  guard  round  the  house. 

One  day,  the  third  or  fourth,  not  able  to  bear  it 
any  longer,  he  had  gone  into  the  head  office,  where 
Captain  Gigli  was  sitting  writing.  Captain  Gigli 
was  very  pale,  and  he  was  writing  in  a  nervous 
way.  Rocco  Traetta,  cap  in  hand,  waited  till  the 
Governor  had  finished  writing;  and  he  went  on 
for  some  time,  putting  aside  the  letters  he  wrote 
without  raising  his  eyes.  At  last  Captain  Gigli, 
noticing  there  was  someone  in  the  room,  gave  over 
writing. 

*  Is  it  you,  Rocco  Traetta  ?     What  do  you  want  ?' 

*  I  would  like  to  know,  sir,'  said  the  convict  in  a 
low  voice — *  I  want  to  know  about  .  .  .  the  little  one.' 

*  Poor  little  fellow !'  said  the  father,  much  touched  ; 
'  he  has  a  cruel  illness ;  he  suffers  a  great  deal.' 

*  Holy  Virgin !  Holy  Virgin !'  Rocco  Traetta  ex- 
claimed sadly. 

*  Poor  little  chap  !  he  is  so  patient,'  said  Gigli  in  a 
low  tone,  half  to  himself;  *  his  mother  is  always 
beside  him.' 

*  But  he  will  soon  be  well  ?  When  will  he  re- 
cover ?' 

'  It  will  need  some  days  yet — still  some  days.' 


240  ON  GUARD    / 

The  convict  stood  silent,  confused ;  it  was  evident 
that  he  wanted  to  say  something',  and  -that  he  dared 
not.    Then,  as  he  had  come  for  the  purpose,  he  said : 

* .  .  .  And  can  he  not  see  anyone  ?' 

Captain  Gigli  raised  his  eyes  to  that  guilty  face, 
and  saw  a  great  longing  and  anxiety  impressed  in  it. 

*  For  the  present,  no,'  he  replied,  after  thinking  a 
little.  *  He  is  jiervous,  pfoor  little  fellow !  and  people 
in  the  room  bother  him.' 

'At  one  time,  when  he  was  with  me,  I  could 
amuse  him.' 

*  That  is  true ;  but  you  must  wait  to  see  him.  The 
doctor  has  given  these  orders  also.' 

*  Well,  how  long  must  I  wait — to-morrow  or  the 
day  after  ?'  - 

'Longer  than  that — longer;  he  needs  rest,'  said 
Gigli  vaguely,  embarrassed  by  Rocco  Traetta's  ob- 
stinacy. 

Again  there  was  silence.  Rocco  Traetta  twirled 
his  red  cap  in  his  fingers,  not  making  up  his  mind 
to  go  away,  still  having  something  to  say.  Captain 
GigH,  feeling  embarrassed,  not  knowing  how  to 
answer  such  pressing  questions,  wished  to  send  hint 
off.  He  put  his  head  down  and  began  writing 
again. 

'  Your  Excellency,  you  are  so  good  as  to  bear  with 
me ;  will  you  do  me  a  kindness  ?' 

'  Say  what  it  is,'  said  Gigli,  rather  bbthered. 

'Greet  him  from  me— the  little  chap.     Tell  him 


'     ON  GUARD  241 

that  Sciurillo  sends  him  many  greetings.    Please,  sir, 
don't  forget  it.' 

'Very  well,'  said  the  Governor;  *  I  will  be  sure  to 
tell  him.' 

r 

The  convict  murmured,  *  Many  thanks  to  you,  sir,' 
and  went  out  slowly,  followed  by  a  look  from  Cap- 
tain Gigli. 

Nothing  could  astonish  him  —  neither  extreme 
ferocity  nor  extreme  humility,  neither  good  nor  evil 
— for  he  had  lived  in  that  convict  prison  for  six  or 
seven  years ;  but  often  human  nature  showed  itself 
in  such  a  queer  way  it  gave  him  a  start.  Rocco 
Traetta  had  killed  his  father  at  one  blow  over  a 
question  of  money ;  he  was  a  parricide  of  the  most 
frightful  kind,  from  the  motive,  time,  and  the  whole 
circumstances.  ^  Still,  that  man,  who  for  ten  minutes 
in  his  life  had  been  more  murderous  than  a  wild 
beast,  was  shivering  with  grief,  speaking  of  a  sick 
child.  Captain  Gigli  knew — for  he  knew  everything 
that  took  place  on  the  island — that  Rocco  Traetta 
wandered  round  his  house  trying  to  get  in ;  but  he 
knew,  too,  that  his  wife's  tender  soul  became  im- 
placable when  confronted  by  these  hateful  objects. 
She  wished  no  convicts  in  the  house.  She  told 
Grazietta  so,  even  before  Captain  Gigli.  And  none 
came  in — not  one.  When  Nisida,.  the  prison,  and 
the  convicts  were  mentioned  to  heir  by  chance,  as 
naturally  happened,  she  half  shut  her  eyes,  to  hide  a 
flash  of  ragCj  to  try  not  to  say  what  her  heart  told 

16 


242  ON  GUARD 

her,  and  she  bent  over  her  child's  bed  to  kiss 
his  thin,  hot  cheeks  and  soft  hair,  saying,  with 
infinite  compassion  in  her  voice :  *  My  dading !  my 
darhng !' 

So,  not  even  Captain   GigH,  frightened,  shaken, 
and  inwardly  despairing  over  the  boy's  illness  and 
his   wife's    dumb   desperation — not   even    he    dared 
remind  her  that  there  was  a  soul  in  torment,  wander- 
ing round  the  house.      Silently,  trying   not   to  let 
himself  be   seen,  not   let  himself  be  heard,  like   a 
thorough  evildoer,  Rocco  Traetta  passed  his  day  in 
the  little  lanes  round  the  square,  walking  about  if  he 
saw  anyone  appearing,  sitting  on  the  ground  when  he 
was  alone  ;  he  wandered  about  distractedly,  rushing 
away  from   the   court   the   convicts   fed    in,  taking 
his   lump   of  bread  and   the   relish  with   him.     He 
rebelled  silently  against  whatever  scolding  or  punish- 
ment the  warders  gave  him.     He  did  not  shout  out 
or   quarrel,  but   he   always  ran   off  as  soon   as   he 
could.     He  thought  out  all  sorts  of  tricks,  and  on 
his  return  bore  threats  and  punishments  dumbly,  so 
long  as  they  let  him  stay  outside.     On  two  nights 
he  got  away  from   the  dormitory  even,  where  the 
oversight  was  so  strict,  and  spent  the  night  under 
the  feebly-lighted  balcony.      He  came  in  again  at 
dawn,   not    having   slept   at   all,    and   was   met   by 
the   very  warder  sent   to   search   for  him   in  great 
alarm. 

A  report  was  made  to  Captain  Gigli.     It  almost 


ON  GUARD  243 

looked  as  if  Rocco  Traetta  was  trying  to  escape, 
said  the  warder  in  his  report.  Captain  Gigli  replied 
that  he  did  not  believe  that  it  was  an  attempt  at 
escape  ;  Rocco  Traetta  was  to  be  treated  rather  in- 
dulgently. Gigli's  heart  was  doubly  moved  ;  he  felt 
pity  for  the  suffering  child  and  also  a  little  for  that 
wretched,  tortured  man  who  had  no  peace.  But  in 
Cecilia's  heart — in  her  deep  motherly  heart — nothing 
existed  but  one  single  sympathy,  and  it  was  for  her 
child.  She  saw  and  heard  nothing  of  what  went  on 
around  except  the  pain  of  that  bad  throat,  red  with 
inflammation,  white  with  blisters,  that  always  came 
back  again  inexorably. 

She  had  chased  everyone  out  of  that  room,  and 
she  only  thought  of  the  world  she  lived  in,  to  hate  it 
and  believe  it  to  be  the  cause  of  the  child's  illness. 
She  thought  of  it  in  the  long  night  hours,  when  the 
sentinels'  voices  prevented  her  son  from  sleeping ;  they 
reminded  her  that  she  lived  in  a  penal  settlement. 
But,  except  for  that,  her  affection,  her  kindness,  all 
a  mother's  strongest  feelings  were  summed  up  in  her 
son  alone.  It  mattered  not  to  her  who  might  go 
round  the  house  uneasy  about  the  child's  state,  or 
ask  affectionately  for  him,  she  did  not  care  who 
might  be  in  an  agony  to  see  him.  She,  the  mother, 
mystically  endowed,  stood  between  his  world  and 
the  child ;  her  magnetic  force,  her  impetuous  love, 
her  burning  will  would  alone  be  able  to  save  him. 
Her  soul  was  sunk  in  continual,  despairing  prayer ; 

1 6 — 2 


244  ON  GUARD 

she  was  altogether  an  invocation  to  God.     Nothing 
else — God,  and  no  one  else. 

***** 

The  child  had  had  changes  of  getting  better  and 
worse  for  eight  days.  Sometimes  the  swelling  in 
the  throat  got  milder,  its  redness  faded,  the  white 
blisters  taken  away  by  the  touch  of  caustic  did  not 
form  again,  and  the  high  fever  that  burnt  up  the 
poor  boy  went  down  ;  he  seemed  on  the  way  to  be 
cured.  His  mother's  heart  opened  at  once  to  a  great 
hope.  Only  Dr.  Caracciolo's  face  kept  always  the 
same,  not  disturbed,  but  grave.  The  system  of  cure 
went  on  in  all  its  harshness :  the  burning  with 
caustic  two  or  three  times  a  day,  with  strong  doses 
of  quinine  and  a  full  diet.  For  relapses  came 
suddenly.  That  appearance  in  the  throat  of  large 
corroding,  suffocating  pustules  by  some  unexpected 
fatality  began  again ;  the  fever  flamed  up,  stronger, 
more  scorching ;  the  child  raved  and  raved,  putting 
his  little  hands  to  his  throat,  his  despairing  eyes 
going  round  in  his  worn  face.  The  mother  was 
stunned  and  confused  by  the  unexpected  relapse ; 
she  lost  all  her  treasury  of  hopes  in  a  minute; 
she  was  seized  all  at  once  by  black  terror.  She 
stammered,  calling  him  by  name,  repeatedly  asking 
him  how  he  felt ;  she  shivered,  holding  him  in  her 
arms,  to  cradle  and  soothe  him ;  her  choked  voice 
could  no  longer  sing  the  usual  little  song. 

So  from  day  to  day,  from  night  to  night,  her  heart 


ON  GUARD  245 

leapt  frdmvjo)^©  grief,  from  hope  to  desperation. 
Her  husbanh,  often  consumed  in  the  night  by  a 
mortal  un^asiness\  did  not  sleep,  but  walked  up  and 
down  in  his  wido\vn^d  r(pom.  Sometimes  he  crossed 
the  two  ro^ms  on  tiptoe,  gently  opened  the  door  of 
the  little  ropm,  andUoaked  in.  He  was  very  happy 
if  he  could  Ifind  his  Wi  and  son  in  one  of  their  few 
moments  of  tepose,  aV<liwent  away  silently,  quietly, 
rather  comforted,  thiftking  that  that  rest  was  a 
refreshmek^t  fdr  the  tw©  Vriartyrs.  But  often,  in  the 
small  room,  ink  mother^  W'eary  shadow  was  going 
up  and  dofwn,  hdJdir>g  hefi  complaining  child  in  her 
arms  bourtd  up  iA  blanket sV  letting  a  tired,  emaciated 
face  be  seen.  \         \. 

'  Is  he  -^ors^?'  h\e  askQ4  W^  Vhisper. 

*  Muchjthe /feame,\  sha  rqpli^  in  the  same  tone, 
gomg  on  ivitb  her  wal 

*  My  poor  son !'  the  fa!her  always  said  in  a  low  voice. 
After  gazing  on  that  sad  piVbare  a  minute  he  went 

away.  He  could  not  rest  eilfeer,  thinking  of  that 
desolate,  "Tnotherly  shadow  going;  up  and  down  the 
room.  Tbie  twelfth  day,  espbcially,  the  child  got 
rather  wc^e;  nor^even  the  tqucmng  with  caustic  in 
the  evening  relieved  him,  though  Dr.  Caracciolo  did 
it  with  scrutinizing  attention  and  the  greatest  care. 
He  was  always  asking  for  something  to  drink,  then 
he  could  hardly  swallow  it,  and  he  lamented  and 
wept- — yes,  cried  with  pain,  which  tore  Cecilia's 
heart.     She  gave  him  little  bits  of  ice,  which  re- 


246  ON  GUARD 

freshed  him  for  a  moment,  but  the  heat  and  burning 
began  again  ;  that  feeble,  tossing  body  could  not  be 
kept  down.  The  doctor  had  gone  away,  thoughtful 
as  usual,  but  not  alarmed. 

In  the  evening,  as  Cecilia  was  sitting  beside  the 
bed  and  Captain  Gigli  was  leaning  against  the  top 
of  it,  the  boy  began  to  quiet  down  a  little. 

*  How  do  you  feel  ?'  his  father  asked. 

'  I  feel  better,'  said  the  child  in  his  small  voice. 
After  a  silence,  he  opened  his  eyes,  and,  looking  at 
his  father  and  mother,  he  asked  them  : 

*  Do  you  love  me  very  much  ?'  Both  of  them  got 
a  start  at  this  question,  and  looked  each  other  in  the 
face  dumbly.  *  Do  you  love  me  very  much  ?  You 
ought  to  love  me  a  great  deal,  papa  and  mamma,' 
said  he,  shutting  his  eyes  again. 

*  My  darling,  my  darling  !'  said  his  mother,  hardly 
keeping  back  her  tears. 

*  I  love  you  so  much — so  much,'  muttered  his 
father,  choking  also. 

But  the  beginning  of  the  night  was  better;  the 
child  was  pallid  and  worn  out,  but  he  did  not  rave 
or  feel  choked  as  in  the  daytime.  Indeed,  he  often 
went  to  sleep  quietly,  with  his  head  thrown  back  on 
the  pillow  and  arms  stretched  along  his  body.  He 
wakened  up  again,  but  not  uneasily ;  he  looked 
round,  without  saying  anything. 

*  He  is  not  so  ill,  I  think,'  said  Captain  Gigli  to  his 
wife  as  it  got  late. 


ON  GUARD  247 

*  He  seems  to  be  resting,'  she  whispered ;  *  go  and 
sleep.' 

*  I  will  come  back,'  he  said. 

In  fact,  at  about  two  o'clock  he  came  back  very 
softly.  The  boy's  sleep  had  got  heavier,  and  his 
breath  whistled  in  his  throat ;  sometimes  he  had  a 
guttural  sort  of  wheezing.  But,  except  for  that,  he 
was  resting. 

*  He  is  sleeping,'  whispered  Gigli,  below  his  breath. 

*  He  is  sleeping,'  the  mother  repeated. 

Again  he  went  away.  Cecilia  bent  her  head  in 
sleep,  when  a  breath  wakened  her.  It  was  the 
child's  voice. 

*  Mother,  where  is  the  lamp  ?' 

*  Is  it  too  high  ?  Should  I  put  it  down  ?'  she 
asked,  leaning  over  his  bed. 

'No  ;  it  is  that  I  don't  see  it.' 

She  did  not  quite  understand.  She  made  out  that 
the  light  was  too  low,  and  went  to  move  the  lamp  so 
that  the  light  went  full  in  his  eyes. 

*  Is  that  right  now  ?' 

He  smiled  slightly,  nodded  yes,  and  shut  his  eyes 
as  if  to  go  to  sleep. 

About  four  o'clock  the  little  fellow  opened  his 
eyes  again  and  looked  round  frightened.  He  almost 
thought  that  he  had  been  left  alone,  but  with  a 
struggle  he  lifted  his  head  from  the  pillow  and 
saw  that  his  mother  was  still  there,  resting.  He 
gazed  at  her  with  his  lovely  big  eyes,  enlarged  by 


248  ON  GUARD 

fever,  then  his  head  fell  on  the  pillow  again,  ex- 
hausted by  the  effort.  The  lamp  fully  lighted  up  the 
little  worn  face  that  the  breath  was  coming  from 
with  a  struggle.  He  did  not  call  out  or  say  a 
word ;  only  he  lifted  a  tiny  hand  and  lightly  put  it 
on  his  mother's  cheek.  She  felt  the  touch,  perhaps, 
and  without  opening  her  eyes  said  : 

'  My  darling  !' 

Then  he  made  a  motion  with  his  head  at  his 
mother's  voice,  and  shut  his  eyes.  The  tiny  hand 
stayed  on  his  mother's  cheek  as  a  caress,  and  to 
rest  it. 

***** 

He  was  gone ! 

He  was  on  high 


VI 

There  was  a  light  knock  at  the  door.  Captain 
GigH,  who  was  seated  by  the  Httle  table,  alone,  his  face 
between  his  hands,  raised  his  tearful  eyes,  and  said : 

*  Come  in.' 

Grazietta  came  in,  and  silently  handed  her  master 
a  bit  of  white  paper.  He  opened  it,  and  read  this 
writing,  in  pencil,  in  a  trembling  hand :  *  Remember 
your  promise.' 

It  was  his  wife's  writing ;  that  was  all  that  was  in 
the  note.  What  he  was  to  remember  did  not  come 
back  at  once  to  Captain  Gigli's  confused  mind.  He 
looked  at  Grazietta  dreamily,  as  if  wishing  to  ques- 
tion her.  She  threw  up  her  arms  to  show  she  did 
not  know. 

*  Remember  your  promise.'  So  Cecilia  had  written 
from  the  dead  child's  bedside.  What  could  the  de- 
spairing mother  want  ?  What  could  she  be  asking 
for?  Suddenly,  amid  a  medley  of  dark  thoughts, 
the  recollection  darted  into  the  father's  mind.  He 
was  not  able  to  bear  it,  and  said  to  Grazietta : 

*  Tell  your  mistress  that  I  am  coming — I  am 
coming  to  her.' 

In  fact,  in  a  few  minutes  he  went  through  the 


V  /' 
^  -^  .< 


oX^  J    -Mo  ON  GUARD 

o^^    '      '  ■>  / 

little  parlour;  its  doors  were  wide  open,  but  there 
was  no  life  in  it.  He  got  to  the  door  of  the  small 
room  the  child  was  in ;  a  slight  scent  of  herbs  and 
flowers,  a  feeble  light  of  wax  candles,  came  out. 
And  the  soldier  of  the  War  of  Independence,  who 
had  seen  death  on  fields  of  battle  and  in  hospitals 
without  being  moved,  dared  not  go  into  the  boy's 
room.     He  waited  a  minute,  then  called  out : 

*  Cecilia!' 

Slowly,  in  her  black  dress,  her  hands  hanging  list- 
lessly down,  the  mother  came  out.  A  livid  pallor 
covered  her  cheeks,  and  she  had  the  staring  eyes  of 
one  vainly  trying  to  fix  her  thoughts.  She  stood 
motionless  in  the  doorway,  turning  round  sometimes, 
as  if  she  was  called  for. 

*  Poor  soul '  he  began,  putting  his  hand  on  her 

head.  But  he  could  bear  no  more,  and  big  tears 
rolled  down  his  brown  cheeks. 

*  Don't  cry — don't  cry!'  she  said  in  a  monotonous 
voice,  that  had  no  expression  left  in  it.  *  I  am  not 
weeping.     Will  you  keep  your  promise  ?' 

*  Now  ?     Would  you  wish  it  now  ?' 

*  Yes,  I  do,'  she  said  obstinately. 
He  looked  at  her,  not  daring  to  question  her. 

*  I  wish  to  take  away  the  child,'  she  said  harshly. 

*  Take  him  away  ?     Thus  ?' 

*  Yes,  even  now,'  she  said  sternly.  *  He  was  born 
in  a  prison ;  he  died  in  it.  I  wish  to  take  him  to 
Naples,  where  there  are  no  convicts.' 


ON  GUARD  251 

*  To  Naples  ?' 

'  To  the   Naples   cemetery,  where   there   are   no 
convicts,  to  lie  among  the  good,  honest  dead.' 
He  looked  at  her,  and  took  her  by  the  hand. 

*  There  will  be  difficulties,'  he  said. 

*  If  I  had  to  carry  him  in  my  arms,  I  would  take 
my  baby  away !'  she  said  obstinately,  harshly. 

*  You  are  right,'  he  said,  conquered,  convinced. 

*  Everything  must  come  from  Naples,  Luigi — 
everything,  you  understand  ?'  she  said  imploringly. 
*  For  love  of  him,  nothing  from  here,  you  know — 
nothing !' 

*  There  will  be  nothing  got  here,  dear — nothing.' 
She  turned  round  to  watch  over  the  dead  child, 

with  the  same  wandering  eyes  which  after  the 
strain  was  over  could  not  fix  on  anything.  Em- 
ployment came  to  distract  the  father's  deep  grief; 
there  were  all  the  tremendous  difficulties  of  taking 
anything  from  Nisida  to  Naples,  of  getting  per- 
mission and  authorization  to  do  so.  The  whole 
day  long  there  were  telegrams  sent  backwards  and 
forwards  between  Pozzuoli,  Naples,  and  Nisida, 
messengers  left  and  others  arrived  —  a  feverish 
activity,  by  which  the  father's  grief  found  an  outlet, 
a  relief.  Those  going  and  coming  had  the  miserable 
look  of  people  doing  a  sad  bit  of  work  unwillingly, 
out  of  affection  or  duty;  they  only  said  what  was 
required,  speaking  in  a  whisper,  as  if  they  feared 
to  disturb  someone's  rest.     The  father  listened  in 


252  ON  GUARD 

rather  an  absent-minded,  confused  way  ;  he  thanked 
them  with  a  look.  If  a  new  difficulty  arose,  he  at 
once  set  himself  again  to  give  orders,  write,  and 
telegraph. 

But  all  this  was  in  his  office.  In  the  house  with 
the  wide-open  doors  there  was  a  profound  hush,  and 
only  Grazietta  was  going  about  on  tiptoe,  often  drying 
her  eyes  with  her  blue  apron.  Something  was  being 
got  ready  hurriedly.  From  the  square  could  be  seen 
the  ghastly  waxlights  in  the  child's  room.  In  the 
office  there  was  a  string  of  people,  men  and  women, 
asking  the  Governor  if  it  was  possible  to  see  the 
child.  This  was  the  Southern  custom.  When  there 
is  a  death,  all  doors  are  opened  and  the  people  come 
in.  Then,  if  it  is  a  dead  child,  everyone  comes  also 
for  the  purpose  of  securing  its  protection,  for  they 
piously  believe  the  child  can  take  all  their  prayers 
to  God.     But  Gigli  replied  to  them  all : 

*  Later  on,  later  on.' 

For  twice,  when  he  called  Cecilia  to  tell  her  this, 
she  replied  *  No  '  obstinately. 

*  I  will  not  have  it,'  she  said  dully. 

*  Oh,  Cecilia,  allow  them  to  pray  for  him.' 

*  The  child  is  on  high  ;  he  does  not  need  their 
prayers.' 

The  second  time,  rather  moved  by  her  husband's 
entreaties,  she  said : 

'  Not  now,  not  now  ;  afterwards.' 

They  all  went  away  sure  of  coming   back  later. 


ON  GUARD  253 

Only  Rocco  Traetta  stayed  on  in  a  corner  of  the 
office,  seated  on  a  wooden  form  in  the  passage,  hold- 
ing his  cap  in  his  hand  with  his  head  down.  In  the 
morning  he  had  called  to  Grazietta  from  the  kitchen 
grating  to  get  news  of  the  little  chap,  and  she,  burst- 
ing into  tears  with  her  head  hid  in  her  apron,  said 
to  him  : 

'  The  little  one  has  gone  to  Paradise.' 

Traetta  stood  there  stupefied. 

*  The  little  one !     What !  the  little  one  ?'  he  said. 
From  that  moment  he  had  gone  into  the  office  lobby 

and  sat  huddled  up  in  a  corner  not  asking  any  ques- 
tions. Twice  or  thrice  in  passing  Captain  Gigli  saw 
him,  but  he  did  not  stop,  for  he  felt  embarrassed  by 
Traetta's  presence.  Only,  the  third  or  fourth  time, 
Traetta  got  up  and  said  to  him  : 

*  Your  Excellency,  do  me  the  kindness  of  letting 
me  see  the  little  one.' 

*  Later  on,  later  on,'  said  Gigli  hastily. 

*  Tell  the  lady  ;  tell  her  that  I  never  went  in  when 
he  was  ill,  because  she  did  not  wish  it.  Say  to  her 
she  ought  to  do  me  this  kindness  now.' 

*  I  will  tell  her  that.' 

He  went  away,  but  after  an  hour  he  was  again  in 
the  office  lobby,  waiting  with  the  invincible  patience 
of  a  broken  heart.  At  last,  towards  evening,  when 
Captain  Gigli,  worn  out,  was  going  from  the  office 
on  his  way  home,  he  said  to  him : 

*  Come  to-morrow  morning  before  we  start.' 


254  ON  GUARD 

The  convict  looked  at  him,  astonished,  then  he 
bowed  his  head. 

*  Thank  you,  sir.' 

When  he  went  upstairs  Gigli  had  his  wife  called 
into  the  passage.  She  was  still  the  same,  always 
with  that  sudden  turning  back,  as  if  someone  were 
calling  her. 

*  Everything  is  done,'  said  Captain  Gigli,  with  a 
struggle. 

'  At  what  time  is  it  to  be  ?' 

*  To-morrow,  at  mid-day.* 

Only  when  the  hour  was  fixed  on,  only  when  that 
definite,  last,  closing  word  was  said  by  her  husband 
in  a  low  voice,  only  then  that  woman  with  the  heart 
turned  to  stone  reeled ;  a  frightful  sob  seemed  to 
rend  her  breast,  and  she  fell  into  her  husband's  arms, 
crying  out  and  weeping,  seized  by  a  convulsion  of 
sorrow,  broken  down,  like  a  tree  that  quivers  from' 
its  roots,  in  such  a  passion  of  grief  that  the  man,  a 
soldier,  was  afraid,  and  held  her  in  his  arms,  silent, 
frightened,  dumfounded,  thinking  that  perhaps  she 
would  die  that  very  moment,  and  he  could  do 
nothing  to  save  her. 

It  was  on  a  mild  November  morning  that  the 
filing  past  of  those  come  to  greet  the  dead  child 
began  from  the  wide-open  doors  of  the  Governor's 
house.  From  Naples  had  come  the  thick  candles  of 
wax  which  were  burning — a  symbol  of  the  Christian 
soul  burnt  up  by  faith ;  thence  came  the  bunches  of 


I 


ON  GUARD  255 

fresh  flowers  with  which  his  bed  and  room,  the 
house  and  stairs  even,  were  scattered  ;  from  there 
came  the  white  garment  and  the  shoes  that  the  httle 
one  was  to  take  his  last  journey  in ;  from  Naples, 
finally,  came  his  last  bed,  a  coffin  lined  with  silk. 

The  first  to  go  into  the  little  room  was  Rocco 
Traetta ;  he  went  in  very  softly,  almost  sliding  over  the 
floor.  The  mother  dressed  in  black,  her  hair  rather 
loose  on  her  neck,  was  seated  at  a  little  distance 
from  the  bed,  holding  her  knees  with  her  hands. 
She  looked  at  the  convict  as  if  she  did  not  see  him ; 
her  eyes  had  no  expression  in  them.  Rocco  Traetta 
knelt  down  beside  the  bed,  leaning  his  head  against 
the  edge,  and  stayed  there  a  long  time,  not  weeping 
or  saying  a  word.  He  cautiously  took  hold  of  one 
of  the  little  child's  waxen  hands,  kissed  it,  and  put 
something  in  it.  The  mother  kept  motionless ;  at 
one  point  she  looked  at  the  convict  icily,  as  if  she 
would  chase  him  away.  He  got  up  and  left  the 
room  ;  but  he  stayed  in  the  corridor,  standing  in  the 
shadow,  seeing  a  lot  of  people  pass  in  front  of  him — 
women,  children,  soldiers,  officers — all  those  who, 
from  a  feeling  of  compassion,  a  melancholy  sort  of 
curiosity  about  death,  went  into  the  sweet-smelling 
room  where  the  little  dead  one  lay. 

No  one  asked  what  the  paper  was,  closed  and 
sealed  like  a  letter,  that  the  child  held  in  its  fingers. 
When  a  young  child  dies  in  the  Southern  provinces, 
those  who  go  to  see  it,  or  the  relations  themselves, 


256  ON  GUARD 

put  In  its  hands,  in  the  girdle  or  folds  of  the 
dress,  some  tiny  letter ;  it  is  almost  always  a  prayer 
to  the  Lord  or  the  Virgin,  asking  a  favour,  which  the 
child  carries  with  it  to  Paradise.  So  Rocco  Traetta 
had  put  in  the  peccerillo's  fingers  a  letter  directed  to 
the  Virgin,  Our  Lady  of  Sorrows,  asking  her  to  do 
him  the  favour.  He  saw  the  people  pass;  they  went 
in,  knelt  down,  and  prayed,  without  feeling  the 
courage  to  say  anything  to  that  dark  figure  of  a 
mother  turned  to  stone.  Nor  did  she  tremble  when 
Captain  Gigli  called  her  outside,  and,  trembling  all 
over,  said  to  her : 

*  We  ought  to  go  now.' 

*  Very  well,'  she  said  resolutely,  going  towards  her 
room,  like  a  machine,  to  get  a  cloak  and  bonnet. 

They  were  to  go  with  the  dead  child  to  Naples : 
and  of  course  it  was  not  such  an  agonizing  wrench 
as  if  they  had  had  to  see  him  carried  off  and  stay 
themselves  in  the  house.  They  were  going  out ; 
they  were  going  together  ;  this  doleful  journey  would 
assuage  the  agony.  The  husband  tried  to  detain  his 
wife  in  the  room,  not  to  let  her  hear  the  noise  of  the 
coffin  being  nailed  down.  It  was  soldiers  who  did 
the  work,  delicately,  making  as  little  noise  as  possible. 
She  saw  and  heard  nothing.  Rocco  Traetta  and 
Grazietta  were  present.  The  servant  shed  tears, 
silently,  seeing  the  little  corpse  settled  in  its  coffin 
as  in  a  bed,  its  tiny  head  resting  on  the  silk  pillow. 
The  convict  was  dumb ;  he  did  not  shed  tears,  but 


ON  GUARD  257 

his  eyes  were  burning,  as  if  a  rush  of  bloody  tears 
had  gone  over  them.  On  the  bier  and  over  it  were 
flowers,  and  all  around.  Other  soldiers  carried 
more  wreaths  behind.  The  coffin  was  carried  down 
silently,  and  in  the  square,  around  the  bier,  stood 
those  who  wished  to  follow  it,  at  least  as  far  as  the 
iron  gate.  There  were  officers,  their  wives,  and  the 
clerks.  The  bier  stood  in  the  midst  of  them,  borne 
by  soldiers,  and  was  covered  with  flowers.  It  was 
a  large,  sweet-smelling  heap  of  flowers. 

The  mother  and  father  went  down  a  little  later. 
She  had  a  black  veil  over  her  head,  but  the  full  light 
and  the  little  crowd  alarmed  her.  She  searched  for 
her  child's  face,  and  only  saw  the  coffin. 

'  Luigi,  Luigi !'  she  said,  as  if  she  was  praying. 
*  He  is  inside  there,  is  he  not  ?' 

'  Yes,  he  is.' 

*  But  I  will  see  him  again.  At  Naples  you  will 
show  him  to  me  ?' 

*  Yes,  dear — at  Naples.' 

On  foot,  slowly,  the  procession  moved  on.  Im- 
mediately after  the  coffin  came  the  father  and 
mother,  then  the  officials.  She  was  walking,  leaning 
on  her  husband's  arm,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  bier, 
swinging  about  as  it  went  down  the  slope.  Then 
Rocco  Traetta  came  behind — the  last  one.  The 
landscape  had  got  a  little  bare,  but  a  mild  sun  lit  it 
up,  as  it  was  mid-day.      The   party  seemed  to  be 

17 


2S8  ON  GUARD 

going  away,  leaving  the  island  for  ever,  with  no 
thought  of  ever  returning  to  it.  At  the  great  iron 
gates  there  was  the  leave-taking.  Everyone  pressed 
Captain  Gigli's  hand,  saying  some  comforting  word 
to  him.  The  iron  gate  opened  wide  and  shut  again. 
From  there  two  soldiers  carried  the  bier.  The 
dead  child's  father  and  mother,  two  officers  and  two 
civilians,  went  on  also  down  to  the  shore  with  it, 
and  the  rest  of  the  httle  crowd,  including  Rocco 
Traetta,  went  up  into  the  island  again.  But  he, 
though  no  one  noticed  it,  stood  still  on  the  woody 
slope,  looking  at  the  procession,  appearing  and  dis- 
appearing among  the  bushes,  still  going  aown.  He 
was  gazing  at  the  vivid  colours  of  the  flowers  that 
covered  and  fell  down  from  the  little  coffin,  gazing 
at  the  little  chap  who  was  going  off  for  ever. 

Suddenly,  at  an  angle  of  the  road  going  down  to 
the  little  beach,  the  procession  was  hidden  from  him, 
and  he  stood  some  time  without  seeing  it.  But  he 
waited  patiently.  Perhaps  there,  in  the  island,  they 
were  searching  everywhere  for  him,  but  he  was 
forgetful  of  everything.  He  narrowed  .  his  eyes 
intently  to  see  if  the  burial-party  would  show  again. 
As  a  fact,  it  did,  on  the  shore.  The  large  boat  wait- 
ing for  it  had  no  signs  of  mourning ;  indeed,  it  had 
flowers  at  the  bottom  and  thrown  on  to  the  seats. 
The  two  sailors  saluted  by  raising  their  oars.  In  a 
minute  the  boat  was  loaded  with  wreaths,  and  in 


ON  GUARD  259 

the  middle,  among  the  loose  flowers  and  wreaths, 
the  coffin  was  placed.  Nothing  but  flowers  could 
be  seen.  At  the  prow  sat  the  father  and  mother, 
pallid  figures  in  black ;  alongside  of  them  was  the 
funeral  party,  forming  a  group.  So  the  boat  went, 
laden  with  flowers,  through  the  blue  sea  slowly,  as 
if  a  happy  party  were  being  borne  along.  Thus 
Rocco  Traetta  saw  it  go,  bright  and  sweet-smelling, 
sliding  over  the  quiet  waves  with  an  indistinct 
movement. 

On*  the  deserted  Bagnoli  shore  that  November 
morning  only  the  outline  of  two  carriages  could  be 
seen.  No  one  stopped  to  look  at  the  boat  laden 
with  flowers  that  came  forward  slowly,  perhaps  in 
obedience  to  a  word  from  the  mother.  So  the  dead 
child  went  away  for  ever,  among  flowers,  over  the 
blue  sea — went  away  from  the  prison,  the  convicts, 
off  to  freedom. 

So  Rocco  Traetta  saw  him  go  off.  He  had  not 
been  able  to  see  him  or  greet  him  while  yet  he 
lived,  and  now  he  greeted  him  dead.  He  spoke  in 
a  whisper,  as  if  speaking  to  him,  as  if  the  boy  could 
still  hear  him,  calling  him  the  peccerillo,  the  bonny 
boy,  and  asking  his  help  to  get  the  favour  he  wished 
from  the  Virgin,  reminding  him  of  the  letter  he  had 
put  in  his  hands,  which  had  been  enclosed  in  the 
coffin.  The  boy  was  far  off.  He  was  getting  out  of 
the  boat  now ;  they  were  putting  him  in  the  carriage, 

17 — 2 


26o  ON  GUARD 

still  among  flowers;  the  father  and  mother  got  in 
with  him ;  the  others  went  in  the  second  carriage. 
The  child  was  very  far  off ;  the  carriages  drove  away 
quickly ;  they  disappeared  on  the  Fuorigrotta  road. 
All  was  ended.  The  child  was  dead ;  he  had  dis- 
appeared. 


VII 

There  was  no  moon  that  night.  The  thin  veil  of 
autumn  mist  that  had  covered  the  sky  in  the  day- 
time had  become  in  the  evening  a  thick  bank  of 
clouds.  A  black  sky  rested  on  the  blackness  of  the 
sea,  on  the  profound  darkness  of  Nisida ;  but  it  did 
not  look  like  a  hurricane  or  as  if  rain  was  coming ; 
there  was  great  quietness  in  the  air,  rather,  and  all 
around,  so  that  the  sentinels  standing  up  under  the 
arch  of  their  sentry-boxes  questioned  the  shadows 
absent-mindedly.  Some  sentinel  had  lighted  a  small 
lantern  at  the  bottom  of  the  sentry-box — for  all  the 
lamps  on  the  island  had  gone  out — but  its  feeble  light 
was  covered  by  the  soldier's  body;  he  stood  right 
in  front  of  his  wood  and  iron  hut.  There  was  pro- 
found shadow  and  quietness ;  only,  as  always,  every 
quarter  of  an  hour  the  summoning  voice  began  at 
one  end  of  the  island,  producing  another,  slowly, 
regularly,  up  to  the  further  end,  and  turning  back, 
round  and  round,  with  the  answer : 

'  Be  on  the  alert,  sentinel !'    ('All'  erta,  sentinella!') 
'  On  the  alert  I  am  !'     ('  All'  erta  sto  !') 
The   questioning  voice  was   liveliest — it  sounded 
like  an  alarm — while  the  answering  voice  was  quiet. 


262  ON  GUARD 

peaceful,  almost  serene,  in  its  confidence  of  watching. 
The  quiet  was  so  profound  that  night.  Only,  about 
two  o'clock^n  the  depth  of  the  night,  that  is  to 
say — the  sentinel  guarding  the  sharpest  angle  of  the 
island  towards  Pozzuoli  gave  d:  start.  He  had  heard 
no  noise,  but  a  sort  of  electric  shock  told  him  that 
the  solitude  around  was  broken  by  a  man  or  an 
animal.  Sometimes,  in  a  dark  room,  in  a  court- 
yard, a  street,  or  countryside,  where  one  is  perfectly 
sure  of  being  alone,  one  gets  suddenly  an  absolute 
certainty  that  there  is  someone  about.  You  don't 
see  or  hear  anything,  but  you  feel  that  an  empty 
space  has  been  filled  up  by  a  body.  It  was  so 
with  the  sentinel.  He  peered  into  the  darkness, 
but  he  could  make  out  nothing.  Thinking  that  it 
was  the  nearest-posted  sentinel  come  to  ask  him  for  a 
match  to  light  his  pipe,  he  said,  rather  in  a  whisper : 

*  Who  goes  there  ?' 

He  got  no  answer ;  he  shook  his  head,  thinking 
that  he  had  been  mistaken.  But  he  came  from 
Calabria;  he  was  accustomed  to  walk  at  night  on 
dangerous  roads,  looking  out  not  to  be  surprised; 
and  he  went  on  watching,  taking  a  few  steps 
cautiously  round  the  sentry-box.  Again  there  was 
profound  quiet.  But  half  an  hour  had  not  gone  by 
when,  for  the  second  time,  he  had  exactly  the  same 
idea  of  someone  moving  about  thirty  paces  off,  a 
little  higher  up,  in  a  hedge  that  covered  steps  down 
from  the  island.    Instead  of  answering  the  challenging 


ON  GUARD  263 

sentence  that  was  sounding  then — '  Be  on  the  alert, 
sentinel !' — he  levelled  his  gun  and  fired.  Imme- 
diately two  long,  agonizing  cries  were  heard,  and  all 
around,  all  over  the  island,  wherever  there  was  a 
sentinel,  the  furious,  stormy,  shrieking  words  sounded  : 

*  To  arms  !     To  arms  1     To  arms  ! ' 

Three^  or  four  gun-shots  rang  out  together,  bring- 
ing out  others  round  the  island  ;  there  was  a  circle  of 
lowered  guns  firing  towards  the  sea  blindly,  because 
the  word  of  command  was  to  fire  down  towards 
where  the  fugitives  were  going — the  unknown  fugi- 
tives. There  was  a  wreath  of  fire  and  smoke  round 
the  island  in  the  night,  and  at  once,  amidst  the 
tumult  of  the  awakened  prison,  of  soldiers  led  by  an 
officer  who  were  running  to  the  search,  the  sharp 
clatter  of  guns  being  reloaded  was  heard.  Tumultu- 
ouslyj-the  warders  in  the  dormitories  had  the  convicts' 
names  called  over  to  see  who  was  missing,  while  an 
orderly  ran  s'^ftly  to  the  bottom  of  the  island  to 
start  off  two  boats  to  make  a  search.  Everywhere 
the  lamps  were  lighted  again,  the  whole  of  Nisida 
was  on  foot. 

Half  dressed,  pale,  frightened  at  his  responsi- 
bility, the  Under- Governor  who  took  Captain  Gigli's 
place  in  his  absence,  after  having  gone  through  the 
guard-house,  went  to  attend  the  convicts'  roll-call 
in  the  dormitories.  They,  already  dressed,  alarmed, 
did  not  hear  the  roll-call  or  answer  in  time,  and 
there  was  a  yelling  and  cursing  by  the  warders,  a 


264  ON  GUARD 

shouting  by  convicts,  punishments  raining  down. 
At  every  dormitory  that  was  found  to  be  full  the 
ghastly-looking  Under- Governor  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 
Who  could  tell  ?  Perhaps  not  one  was  missing 
— perhaps  it  was  a  false  alarm  of  the  sentinel's 
towards  Pozzuoli.  But  outside  every  now  and  then 
an  isolated  gun-shot  sounded,  people  were  search- 
ing about,  calling  each  other,  and  there  was  a  sharp 
clatter  of  guns  being  reloaded.  The  roll-call  in  the 
prison  went  on.  Sometimes  a  convict  answered  to 
his  name  in  a  melancholy  way  : 

*  I  am  here — I  am  here.  Lucky  chap  that  has 
escaped !' 

Yes,  they  all  envied  the  unknown  men  who  had 
escaped.  One  saw  it  in  their  faces,  by  their  whispered 
conversations  and  malicious  smiles.  The  warders 
were  raging.  It  was  in  the  last  dormitory,  where 
there  were  sixty  convicts,  that  fifty-eight  only  were 
found.  The  warder,  driven  desperate,  went  over  the 
roll-call  three  times,  thinking  that  he  had  made  a 
mistake  !  but  there  were  fifty-eight,  still  fifty-eight — 
two  were  wanting.  Turning  to  the  Under-Governor, 
who  had  got  clay-colour,  he  said  : 

*  Two  have  escaped.' 

*  Who  are  they  ?' 

*  Giacomo  Calama,  called  Ingannalamorte.' 
'  Who  is  the  other  ?' 

'  Rocco  Traetta,  called  Sciurillo.' 
'  Are  they  young  fellows  ?' 


ON  GUARD  265 

*  Yes,  they  are.' 

The  Under-Governor  bit  his  hp  to  keep  back  an 
oath ;  then  he  went  away  hurriedly  to  organize  the 
search  better. 

All  over  the  island  the  two  names  Ingannala- 
morte  and  Sciurillo  were  spreading  from  mouth  to 
mouth,  repeated  and  commented  on  by  everyone. 
There  were  lights  running  about  among  the  bushes, 
among  the  cliffs ;  people  at  the  base  of  the  island 
were  coming  and  going ;  everywhere  officers'  sabres 
were  clinking.  Some  lights  were  lit  even  on  the 
Bagnoli  shore  opposite.  It  took  an  hour  before  the 
boats  could  be  set  in  motion.  Their  huge  lanterns 
left  a  sort  of  bloody  track  of  light  on  the  sea ;  they 
went  round  slowly,  exploring  every  grotto,  going  into 
every  little  bay  in  the  island.  In  the  boats  the 
barrels  of  the  soldiers'  guns  sparkled,  reflecting  the 
red  lantern  light.  Every  now  and  then,  from  some 
hallucination  of  a  watching  sentinel,  a  gun-shot  was 
heard,  and  the  Under-Governor,  who  was  going 
backwards  and  forwards  much  agitated,  stood  still, 
thinking  it  was  the  signal  that  the  fugitives  had  been 
retaken.  The  convicts  had  all  been  sent  back  to 
bed,  but  none  of  them  were  sleeping ;  they  were 
chattering,  and  it  was  impossible  to  keep  them  silent ; 
some  of  them  made  vows  out  loud  for  the  deserters 
not  to  be  taken.  But  the  tumult  and  searching  did 
not  cease  till  morning,  when  the  report  was  made  to 
the  Under-Governor  about  the  escape.     Two  chains 


266  ON  GUARD 

had  been  found,  with  their  rings  neatly  filed,  in  the 
grass  near  the.  bushes  where  the  Calabrian  sentinel 
had  felt  the,  fugitives'  presence.  Giacomo  Calama, 
called  Ingannalamorte,  could  not  be  found,  alive  or 
dead,  by  sea  or  land,  neither  at  Bagnoli,  Pozzuoli, 
nor  in  the  abyss — nowhere.  Declared  escaped.  Rocco 
Traetta,  called  Sciurillo,  had  been  found  lying  on  the 
rocks,  his  skull  fractured — dead. 


THE   END 


BILLING   AND    SONS,    LTD.j    PRINTERS,    GUILDFORD 


A 


THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

By  MATILDE'  SERAO  • 

Some  ipresa  ©pinions 

The  Pall  Mall  Gazette. — It  is  long  since  we  have  read — and, 
indeed,  re-read — any  book  of  modern  fiction  with  so  absorbing  an 
interest  as  "The  Land  of  "Cockayne,"  the  latest  book  by  Matilde 
Serao  (Heinemann),  and  surely  as  fine  a  piece  of  work  as  the  genius 
of  this  writer  has  yet  accomplished.  It  is  splendid  t  -Powers  of  the 
highest  order,  an  intensity  of  feeling  almost  painful  in  its  acuteness, 
a  breathless  vigour  that  carries  the  reader  off  his  feet  and- away,  like 
some  turbulent  mountain  stream — these  are  but  some  of  th^  qualities 
manifest  in  this  astounding  epic  of  superstition,  sorrow,  and  shame. 
We  can  think  of  no  other  writer  who  has  given  us  so  startling  and, 
at  the  same  time,  so  true  an  insight  into  Neapolitan  life  and  thought, 
while  throughout  the  whole,  like  the  ever-recurring  notes  of  a  leit- 
motif, comes  the  influence,  in  one  shape  or  another,  of  the  inborn 
gambling  craze.  Peculiarly  pathetic,  though  slight  in  its  relation 
to  the  whole  story,  a  mere  feature  in  the  grand  general  scheme,  is 
the  love-t^le  of  the  rough  peasant-born  Dr.  Amati  and  Donna 
Bianca  Maria — poor  hypersensitive,  wasted  flower  of  humanity. 
The  ruin  that  comes  on  the  good  bourgeoise  Fragalas  ;  the  love-lorn 
factory  girl,  who  beggars  herself  in  order  to  play,  play,  play,  so  that 
her  handsome,  good-for-nothing  lover  may  swagger  as  a  "  gentle- 
man," and  possibly  marry  her.  An  umbo !  oh,  for  an  ambo !  It  is 
the  recurring  cry  from  first  to  last — from  the  old  Marquis,  the  father 
of  Bianca  Maria,  to  the  hunchbacked  shoeblack ;  all  meet  on  a 
common  ground,  are  bound  by  a  common  wish.  The  character- 
drawing  is  subtle  and  convincing ;  every  touch  tells.  Take,  for 
instance,  the  sketch  of  the  sisters  Donna  Caterina  and  Donna  Con- 
cetta,  the  one  who  owns  the  "  small  game  "  and  the  other  who  lends 
the  money  to  stake  with  to  the  infatuated  crowd,  thus  playing  into 
each  other's  hands,  while  they  draw  in  and  suck  under  their  dupes 
like  a  veritable  human  Scylla  and  Charybdis.  Yet  these  sisters  are 
(after  their  fashion)  both  just  and  pious  women ;  they  warn  their 
clients  not  to  gamble,  and  give  of  their  substance  to  the  saints  a^d 
to  the  poor.  Such  books  as  "  The  Land  of  Cockayne  "  are  epoch- 
making,  voices  that  cry  aloud  in  the  wilderness  of  modern  "  litera-, 
ture,"  and  will  be  heard  while  others  only  cackle.' 

The  Spectator. — '  An  elaborate  and  ruthless  study  of  the  gambling 
instincts  as  developed  by  State  lotteries  in  modern  Italy.  The  tragic 
consequences  of  indulgence  in  the  gambling  mania  are  traced  out 
with  a  wealth  of  convincing  detail.  "  The  Land  of  Cockayne  "  is  a 
great  novel,  with  a  most  laudable  purpose,  the  lessons  of  which, 
mutatis  mutandis,  should  not  be  thrown  away  on  English  readers. 
One  can  only  regret  that  the  theme  has  never  been  adequately 
treated  by  an  English  writer  of  equal  genius  to  that  of  Madame 
Serao.' 


Some  ipre96  Q^inione— continued 

The  Bookman. — '  Zola  has  never  written  a  more  terrible  account 
of  a  social  evil  than  Madame  Serao's  tales  of  Neapolitan  lotteries. 
Save  that  we  seem  to  see  concentrated  in  her  pages  all  the  evil  in  its 
awful  variety  of  forms,  there  is  no  exaggeration.  Every  several  tale 
is  true,  and  every  one  tells  of  the  same  poisoning  of  the  life  of  the 
people  by  the  two  contending  forces,  locked  there  in  a  deadly 
alliance  of  poverty  and  the  lust  of  gambling.' 

The  Speaker.-^'  Matilde  Serao  has  great  gifts,  perhaps  the 
greatest :  she  is  simpatica.  To  translate  this  quality  into  an  English 
epithet  baffles  my  vocabulary,  but  it  amounts  to  this  :  that  we  like 
Matilde  Serao  in  her  writings.  Also,  she  is  well  informed  in  a 
certain  sphere,  and  within  that  sphere  her  books  move.  Out  of  the 
fulness  of  the  memory,  the  imagination,  the  observation,  the  heart, 
does  the  true  modern  novelist's  mouth  speak.     Who  loves  Naples 

ill  find  what  he  loves  in  Naples  happily  seized,  and  his  curiosity 
in  the  Siren  City  nourished  and  yet  continued.' 

The  Academy. — '  Matilde  Serao  has  the  direct,  impersonal  manner 
that  belongs  only  to  the  efficient.  In  her  books  are  no  asides,  no  \ 
pauses,  no  extraneous  interpolations.  The  story  moves  in  the  un- 
interrupted fashion  of  life.  Having  set  out  to  deal  with  such  and 
such  a  subject,  Matilde  Serao  does  that,  and  nothing  else,  the  un- 
wavering concentration  of  her  methods  rendering  the  average 
English  novel,  with  its  slipshod  construction  and  frequent  digres- 
sions, like  so  many  'prentice  efforts  by  comparison.' 

The  Daily  Chronicle. — '  This  is  an  absorbing  and,  on  the  whole, 
a  very  persuasive  book.  Cockayne  is  Naples  in  these  pages — Naples 
given  over  to  the  lottery,  crazed,  debauched  and  beggared  by  it.  If 
the  colouring  is  high,  the  outline  is  unmistakably  true.  Matilde 
Serao's  fascinating  book  has,  however,  another  side,  and  those  who 
know  anything  at  all  of  the  city  which  it  describes  will  delight  in  the 
countless  incidental  sketches  of  social  life — high,  middle,  and  low.' 

The  Pilot. — '  It  is  not  the  Naples  of  the  forestieYi,  a  city  builded 
of  sun-warm  colours  between  blue  of  sea  and  sky,  which  ,the  well- 
known  Italian  novelist  gives  us  in  "  The  Land  of  Cockayne." 
Beneath  the  surface  fairness  of  that  Southern  world  of  vineyards, 
olive-groves,  and  palms,  Matilde  Serao  reveals  the  volcanic?  forces 
of  smouldering  fumes  and  devastating  flame.  The  book  is  a  tragic 
presentment  of  the  popular  passion  for  the  lottery  and  its  disinte- 
grating effect  upon  individual  and  civic  life.  The  studies  are 
mercilessly  realistic,  both  of  social  types  and  their  suggestive  set-  , 
ting.  "The  Land  of  Cockayne,"  in  its  knowledge  of  the  people, 
their  passions  and  their  weaknesses,  and  the  insidious  influence  of 
the  lottery  upon  them,  rises  to  the  dignity  of  a  social  document. 
The  translation  is  admirable,  ^giving  the\U];ious  hardness  of  the^ 
author's  style,  the  sharp  etching  qf  outline,  tiqsoftened  by  i^nter- 
vening  atmosphere.'  'x         x'       I 

The  Scotsman. — '  It  bears  ©very  trace  of  being  drawn  from  the 
life,  of  being  a  mercilessly  faithful  transcript  of  certain  aspect's  and     j 
phases  of  Neapolitan  society.     It  has  many  marks  of  genius,  andlt  / 
has  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  well  translated.' 


/  -  / 


14  DAY  USE 

ROTUKN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORKOWBD 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  dae  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recaU. 


N0V10J965    0 


REC'D 


OCT  23 '65 -4  PM 


-f 


LD  2lA-60m-3,'65 
(F2336sl0)476B 


General  Library     . 
University  of  California 
Berkeley 


••  '  .   :ti. 


